


All Precious Things Discovered Late

by Arrested



Series: The Day-Dream [5]
Category: Ivanhoe, Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anachronistic Social Attitudes, Angst, Child Abuse, Dom/sub Undertones, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Middle Ages, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 80
Words: 224,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6130771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrested/pseuds/Arrested
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>In the Morning of the Times</i>. </p><p>Oscar and Wamba have finally found their way into one another’s arms, but happy endings are hard to come by, as they learn to navigate the complexities of their new relationship and the secrecy they must maintain. While growing responsibilities place demands on both of them, and outside forces conspire to test the strength of their love, they are forced to find a balance and learn to trust one another fully, or else allow jealousy and doubt to tear them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally inspired by Sir Walter Scott’s _Ivanhoe_ , this work borrows characters and backstory from that novel. A passing familiarity with it is helpful but by no means required to follow the events of this story.
> 
> Caveat lector:  
> 1\. This is a work of historical fiction that has not been rigorously researched. Liberties have been taken with every aspect of medieval life and the sensibilities of the people of that time.  
> 2\. This is a work of slash fiction. The central romantic relationships explored are all between two men.  
> 3\. This work is fairly dark. It contains multiple references to and sometimes graphic descriptions of abuse, torture, murder, and rape.
> 
> This story is my original work. All rights are reserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

Oscar woke with the sun in his eyes and a cloud of gold obscuring his vision.

He smiled, and turned his head to bury his face further into Wamba’s hair, breathing deep to draw the scent of his lover into his lungs. His arms tightened of their own volition, pulling the pliant form back into tight contact with his body.

It was nearly four months since Wamba had finally given in beneath the weight of inevitability and admitted that the feelings they bore one another could not be quelled and would not be ignored. Oscar’s stubborn insistence had won him the place he had waited years to claim, though even now there were still moments when he could not quite believe his luck.

He lifted his head and propped himself up on one elbow to peer over a pale shoulder at Wamba’s face, still lax in sleep. He would scarce have suspected that the cure for Wamba’s restlessness was as simple as Oscar in his bed, but he was more than happy to provide the touch that banished Wamba’s nightmares, curling around his slender form in the great bed each night. Over time, the dark stain of exhaustion that painted the hollows of Wamba’s eyes had gradually faded, to Oscar's immense satisfaction. Wamba's appetite had improved as well, Oscar’s steady feeding providing the happy result that his bones were no longer quite so clearly defined or his face so gaunt. Love suited Wamba, and Oscar was overjoyed to see the change it had wrought in him.

These were Oscar's thoughts as he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on Wamba's cheek, running his hand down the man’s side. The touch roused Wamba, who blinked open dark eyes and turned his head to smile drowsily up at his lover. “Good morning, Oscar.”

“Good morning.” Unable to resist the fondness in that look, Oscar ducked down again to cover Wamba’s mouth with his own, teasing the seam of his lips with playful little licks until Wamba’s mouth opened on a soft laugh and Oscar could claim a true kiss. He supped at the tender flesh of Wamba’s lips for a moment, one then the other, before drawing his tongue into a gentle dance, even as he insinuated one hand casually between slim legs.

Wamba laid hand on his arm, pulling away from the kiss to murmur apologetically, “I need to be up.”

“Not yet,” Oscar enjoined him, dancing teasing strokes along his cock and wringing forth a soft moan.

“There’s really no time,” Wamba said, though his thighs shifted apart to give Oscar more room. “Wilfred is arriving today, and I still have much to do to prepare.”

At the mention of Wamba’s master, Oscar’s jaw tightened and he fought down his scowl. Wilfred of Ivanhoe had been mercifully absent for the past months, away on some manner of inspection of the royal forces stationed around the country on behalf of the king. Oscar had been happy for the reprieve from his presence. He had never quite forgiven Ivanhoe for the way he treated Wamba, keeping him as a slave when it was in the knight’s power to free him and, most galling of all, calling Wamba to his bed when he was in London and distant from his lady wife. This would be the first time Ivanhoe saw Wamba since he and Oscar had become lovers, and Oscar was not looking forward to the visit, to Wamba’s time and possibly more being devoted to his master over Oscar.

Determinedly, he firmed his strokes, feeling Wamba begin to grow heavy in his hand. “Then I will be quick.”

Wamba did not protest further as Oscar turned him onto his back and settled between his legs, one hand caressing him steadily as he took Wamba’s mouth in a forceful kiss. Wamba yielded to his urgency, welcoming him and soothing his agitation with tender hands in his hair and along his shoulders. They were both breathing heavily when Oscar pulled away and slipped his hand further back to press two fingers into Wamba’s body, making his breath hitch. He was still soft and a little slick from their coupling the night before, but Oscar went to the bottle on the bed table for oil to prepare him thoroughly.

He knew the trick of it now, how to use his touch to stoke Wamba’s desire as he made him ready, pulling soft, eager whimpers from his throat that transformed into a moan when Oscar removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock. Wamba looked up at him with lust-dark eyes as Oscar took him in long, smooth strokes. His gaze was soft, as were the thin fingers that rose to caress Oscar’s cheek.

Oscar felt the brush of cool metal on his face, the silver ring on Wamba’s hand, and he growled in sudden irritation. That ring was the mark of Wamba's servitude, proof that the body beneath Oscar was another man’s property. His hand shot up to grip Wamba’s right arm tightly by the wrist, pushing it down and pressing the proof of Ivanhoe’s ownership to the bed while he sped his pace, hips snapping in driving thrusts that made Wamba’s back arch and his mouth open on a gasp. His free hand clawed at Oscar’s shoulder, as the younger bent down to suck a bruising kiss onto Wamba’s newly exposed throat.

“Ah! Oscar!” The sharp cry only made Oscar suck harder at the delicate skin, groaning into Wamba's neck as his pleasure peaked. He panted roughly for a quick moment, while his head spun and his muscles quivered. Then he released Wamba’s arm and pulled away to slide down his body and take his neglected cock into his mouth in a single swallow, winning another shout. He worked Wamba relentlessly, sliding three fingers inside his slick opening and massaging the delightful little spot he had found that made Wamba writhe, driving him inexorably toward climax. Wamba came with a wail, body arched and hands clutching fiercely at Oscar’s hair.

When Wamba's grip went slack, Oscar relinquished his prize with one parting kiss, and looked up to find Wamba panting and stunned, his skin glowing. He reveled in keen satisfaction at the sight, and rested his head on Wamba’s hip, smiling smugly. “Now you can go.”

His flippant words won a weak laugh. Wamba looked down at him, his hands gentle in Oscar’s hair now, the tips of his fingers brushing over the edges of Oscar’s ears. “I’ll need to locate my legs first.”

Oscar crawled up his body to kiss him again, slow and gentle now that his impetuous desire was appeased. “I’ll fetch breakfast.”

“No time now,” Wamba told him, pushing him off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Oscar reached out to slide a hand down his back, regretting the loss of touch. Wamba smiled over his shoulder at him as he stood on slightly unsteady legs. Watching him limp across the room to his washstand, Oscar felt a twinge of regret for his roughness, though Wamba had not seemed to mind it at the time.

Wamba set about scrubbing the evidence of their tryst from his body, unconcerned by Oscar’s gaze on his bare skin. Once Oscar was finally privy to Wamba’s secrets, he realized that the modesty Wamba had always shown him was not a matter of embarrassment over his body, but a wish to prevent Oscar from seeing his scars before he was ready to reveal them. Now that Oscar knew them all, and the stories behind them, Wamba was utterly indifferent about his nudity.

Oscar watched the cloth travel the familiar planes of the spare body, and felt his cock give another hopeful twitch. He nearly laughed, but his humor faded when he noted Wamba's faint wince as he cleaned between his legs. Guilt swept over him, and Oscar pushed himself to his feet at once. He opened Wamba’s cabinet and pulled out the medicine chest there, extracting a squat clay vessel with a fitted lid. He carried it to Wamba, who turned and gave him a curious look as he approached.

“Here,” Oscar said, turning him back to the bowl. “Let me.”

He scooped a dollop of thick white salve onto his finger, holding Wamba by one hip and spreading it with a cautious touch on the raw skin between his legs. He kept the potion on hand, ever since their first time, but he was proud of the fact they had only used it once before, after a first week together when they had both been insatiable, falling into bed as soon as the sky was dark and partaking of one another again and again. Wamba had finally reached his physical limit, which Oscar discovered when Wamba sheepishly confessed one morning that he actually could not stand. Oscar had been solicitous and remorseful as he nursed him back to full strength, and cautious of overburdening him since. This hurt was not nearly so severe, but he regretted his carelessness all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, leaning his head against Wamba’s shoulder.

Wamba turned in his arms, pulling him in with gentle hands on his face for a sweet kiss. “I do appreciate your eagerness, Oscar, but if you wanted Wilfred to know, you need not have feared. It is my intention to tell him.”

Oscar closed his eyes. Of course Wamba knew the source of his upset. From the day they met, he had understood Oscar better than the younger would ever care to admit. “Will he be angry?”

“No,” Wamba said. “He realized your feelings before I did.”

It bothered Oscar to think of Wamba and Ivanhoe discussing him, not least because he still feared that Ivanhoe could keep Wamba from him if he had a mind. He pulled Wamba into his arms, hugging him tightly and burying his face in his neck. Wamba returned the embrace, pressing kisses into his hair.

“Come on.” He handed Oscar the wet cloth and went to find his robes. They dressed quickly, and Oscar noted with an uncomfortable combination of guilt and satisfaction that the mark he had left on Wamba’s neck was not quite covered by his collar.

Oscar pulled him close for one last tender kiss, before they left their chambers and entered the world beyond, where they were lovers no longer, a careful distance between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex. Oscar is 18.


	2. Chapter 2

Ivanhoe blew into the tower as they were returning from the tribunal just after noon. A shout went up at the gate, and the portcullis creaked into motion with a resentful groan, making way for the knight to pass. He was mounted on a black charger, his armor flashing in the bright sunlight and his snowy surcoat fluttering around his greaves. He rode at the head of a small train, a single covered wagon and a dozen uniformed soldiers trailing into the bailey in his wake.

Wamba turned from Oscar at the commotion, and smiled brightly when he saw who had arrived. He changed direction, pointing his steps to meet the party. Oscar followed unhappily after him, unable to stifle the apprehension that once again reared its head. He clutched the scrolls tucked under his arms in a fierce grip and scowled as Ivanhoe swung down from the horse and doffed his helm, shaking out his mane of golden hair and giving Wamba a brilliant grin.

“My lord,” Wamba said, offering a bow, “you took your time.”

Ivanhoe laughed, throwing propriety to the winds and catching Wamba in a rough hug. “How many times must I remind you to call me by my name?”

Wamba returned the hug, wrapping his arms around the knight’s broad back with a chuckle. “Hello, Wilfred.”

Oscar noted absently the similarities between them, their coloring nearly identical despite the difference in stature, and reflected that it was no wonder the court was so easily convinced to accept the fiction that they were brothers. Ivanhoe pulled away to grasp Wamba by both shoulders, taking in his appearance with a raised brow. “You look remarkably well,” he noted approvingly.

Oscar bristled at once. Wamba’s improved health had won him a renewed round of appreciation from the ladies of the court, forcing Oscar to field a flurry of perfumed letters containing flowery declarations. Wamba dealt with them as he always had, refusing each overture in his charmingly apologetic way, but they were a constant source of frustration for Oscar. With Ivanhoe, that feeling was augmented to distressing proportions, verging on outright panic, for Ivanhoe of all the members of the court could have Wamba if he wished. Oscar could not stop him, and Wamba would not refuse him.

“You must congratulate Oscar for that,” Wamba remarked, and Oscar’s panic was doused with icy shock, that he should dare to speak so openly. “He’s quite proud of the fact that he’s finally been able to feed me up,” came the innocuous conclusion.

“Is that so?” Ivanhoe turned a speculative gaze on Oscar. “I should like to hear more about that, I think.”

Sharp blue eyes bored into him, but Oscar refused to give in to the urge to squirm. He put a belligerent scowl on his face instead, refusing to bow to the noble.

“We can talk this evening,” Wamba said, shooting Oscar a reproving little glance. “You must be weary.”

“Later, then. In the meantime, what shall I do with the reading I’ve brought you?”

He waved at the wagon, and Wamba went over to look through the wooden slats. His eyes widened. “All of this?”

Curious, Oscar wandered over to peer over his shoulder into the dim recesses of the wagon. His eyes took a moment to focus, then the shadows resolved into an intimidatingly large collection of books and scrolls, packed in wooden crates, some of which were stacked double.

“My instructions were to bring the complete records from each shire court. Count yourself lucky I did not bring the church court records as well.”

“I haven’t finished going through the first lot you sent yet,” Wamba said. “You were too fast for me.”

“And but a moment ago you were bemoaning my tardiness,” Ivanhoe laughed. “Shall I have them brought to your chamber?”

Wamba shook his head. “There was no room. We’ve had shelves built in the antechamber of the tribunal to store them for now.”

“Do you really plan to read them all? That could take years.”

“I suspect it won’t be necessary,” Wamba said. “My task is only to give an opinion on the quality of justice being served by the royal magistrates. That should be readily apparent from the most recent records in most cases.”

“And once you have?”

“I will recommend to his majesty where he might wish to appoint replacements,” Wamba said.

“Even so, it is no small undertaking,” Ivanhoe remarked.

“No, but it is perhaps a necessary one.”

“This was your idea, then?”

Wamba laughed. “Not remotely. As always, we are servants to his majesty’s vision for fair England. I am but doing my small part.”

“I suppose I am the same,” Ivanhoe said. “Though I will be glad to be discharged of this duty. It has been a long summer, and I am eager to return to Rotherwood again.”

“When will that be?” Oscar interjected bluntly.

Wamba and Ivanhoe both turned to stare at him. Ivanhoe was bemused, but Wamba’s frown was hurt, and Oscar regretted his rudeness, if only for Wamba’s sake, though he could not find it in him to apologize.

“Oscar, why don’t you see to the records?” Wamba said evenly. “You know how to sort them.”

The dismissal hurt more than Oscar could have anticipated. His chief fear for this reunion was that Wamba would put him aside in favor of Ivanhoe, and here it was realized. Without another word, he turned and stalked away back toward the tribunal, feeling like nothing so much as a chastened child.

Sorting the records took most of the afternoon. The boxes were delivered to the small antechamber adjoining the tribunal hall by Ivanhoe’s soldiers. Oscar freed the books and scrolls roughly from their boxes and piled them on the table, separating them first by shire and then ordering them by date, shoving each one violently onto the appropriate shelf. He lashed out at the helpless books for a while, until his anger eventually guttered out, leaving only a gnawing resentment. He continued his task more slowly then, drained and unhappy. Oscar was well aware that his actions were childish, but it was impossibly hard to remember his manners when faced with Ivanhoe.

By the time he was finally done with the records, dusk was come and gone and his stomach was growling peevishly. He returned to the chambers he shared with Wamba to find the library and adjoining bedchamber dark and abandoned, Wamba evidently gone to the hall with Ivanhoe. His anger flaring once more at the loss of his private time with Wamba, Oscar made his way to the kitchens. He begged a bowl of stew from one of the cooks and ate is desultorily, seated at a long table there.

“My, that’s a dour face. Someone piss in your stew?”

Oscar looked up at the familiar voice, smiling as he caught sight of Emma. The chambermaid dropped her own bowl to the table with a clatter, settling on the bench across from him and giving him a smirk. She still wore her apron and cap, which could not quite contain the mess of her willful brown curls. They trailed out here and there, framing wide hazel eyes which danced with amusement at Oscar’s expense.

“It was perfectly palatable until you came along,” Oscar snorted.

“There’s that dazzling charm that has all the kitchen girls swooning.”

Oscar flushed, glancing around to check that they had not been overheard. “That’s not true,” he hissed.

“You don’t think so?” Emma asked, smirking around her spoon. “Clearly you’d better find some more reliable sources if you don’t even know what they say about you in the back corridors.”

“As you are my preferred busybody, you should take my lack of familiarity with the gossip up with yourself.” Oscar pointed out.

“Fair enough,” Emma conceded. “So what is it that’s got you so glum?” She took another bite of her stew, staring at him intently as she chewed.

“Why should I tell you?” Oscar blustered. “You’ll just be passing it along to the next nosy gossip in your chain as soon as I’ve gone.”

“Oscar!” she exclaimed, pressing one hand over her heart in exaggerated affront. “How could you doubt me so? I know how to hold my tongue when it counts. Your secrets are safe with me.”

He considered, just for a moment, telling her. It was tempting. There were only two people he had told about Wamba, his brother Emmett and his childhood friend Cara, and both of them lived outside the walls of the tower, distant enough that he could not take his daily insecurities and counsels to them. It would be a great relief to have someone close by, a trusted friend, to confide in. He looked at Emma’s earnest face, and nearly let the words form. Then reason returned and he shook his head instead.

“It’s nothing. I spent the afternoon trapped in a dark room sorting a pile of musty books, and it put me in a sour mood. That’s all.”

“I thought you liked books,” Emma said. “Otherwise why do you spend so much time with the archivist?”

“I wasn’t reading them. Just sorting.”

“Are you sure there isn’t something else?” she pressed, regarding him seriously now.

Oscar put a smile on his face for her, though it felt false and he was sure it looked it. “Yes,” he said. “I’d better get back.”

He stood, and gathered his bowl to deposit it with the scullions, when suddenly she reached across and took his hand. “You know you can tell me, Oscar,” she said. “Anything.”

Oscar smiled around the sudden knot in his throat, and nodded. “Thanks, Emma.”

He trudged back to Wamba’s chambers slowly, dreading what he might find when he opened the door. He did not know what he would do if Wamba did not return. His hand clenched into a tight fist and he held his breath as he pushed open the door to the library. It was dark and empty, as before, but light flickered in the gap beneath the door to the bedchamber.

Oscar’s fist relaxed and his heart calmed at once when he opened the second door to find a low fire burning in the grate and Wamba curled in the bed in his nightshirt, not quite asleep.

He smiled when he saw Oscar. “There you are.”

Oscar returned the smile helplessly, heart swelling to find Wamba waiting for him. He settled on the edge of the bed, in the curl of Wamba’s body, and leaned down to place a gentle kiss on his lips. “Here I am.”

“Come to bed,” Wamba murmured. He did not question Oscar on where he had been or what he had been doing, simply glad of Oscar’s presence now. Oscar decided he could swallow his curiosity and do the same.

He stood to shed his tunic and quickly wash his face and hands. Then he slipped into the bed behind Wamba, sliding close to mold his body to the familiar shape, wrapping one arm around the narrow waist. Wamba took Oscar’s hand between both of his, pulling it up to rest beneath his chin, hugging Oscar’s arm to his chest and releasing a contented sigh.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the back of Wamba’s head, holding him as he fell asleep. It took much longer for sleep to find Oscar, but gradually his eyes grew heavy, and from one breath to the next he joined Wamba in slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

“This is very well done, Oscar.”

Oscar looked up at Wamba, who was inspecting the neatly sorted collection of books and scrolls on the sturdy wooden shelves while Oscar lit a fire in the grate to warm the antechamber.

“That’s a relief,” he said, “as I should hate to have to redo it, considering how long it took me the first time.”

Wamba smiled at him, a touch contritely. “I suppose it was a bit cruel to put that task on you alone. Will you forgive me?”

“I’ll consider it,” Oscar said magnanimously, “on the condition that you eat something before you throw yourself headlong into righting all the wrongs of England.”

“Very well,” Wamba laughed, though he was already distracted. He ran his hand along one of the shelves searchingly, long fingers flitting across the spines of the leather bound tomes. “Now where were we?”

Oscar stood, brushing ash from his knees. “Lancashire.”

“Ah, yes,” Wamba said, pulling a slim volume from one of the higher shelves, which he carried across to the table. He pushed the scrolls from the morning tribunal off to one side to be dealt with later, opening the book and laying it flat on the tabletop. He flipped through the densely inscribed pages quickly, seeking and finding the sheet he wanted.

Oscar watched him becoming rapidly absorbed in his work, and decided he must fetch food quickly or risk missing his chance to get a meal into Wamba. He stepped out the rear door of the building, intending to cross to the castle gate and make for the kitchens, when his attention was caught by a round-faced woman in a brown dress and cap selling pies from a small cart at the river’s edge.

Pleased at the idea of bringing Wamba something other than the usual fare from the castle kitchens, he changed course and approached the woman, the warm aroma of the meat pies teasing his nose as he drew close. It had drawn the attention of a trio of curious crows as well, which scattered before his boots, stalking wary circles around the cart. While the woman wrapped two pies in a strip of linen for him, he looked out over the river and its swarm of small boats, darting busily along in the shallows and beneath the arches of the great bridge with its rows of shops clustered precariously overhanging the water.

He smiled and thanked the pie seller as he took his purchase from her hands, turning from the view of the city to scurry back toward the tribunal. He was just approaching the door when a voice hailed from the direction of the castle.

“Oscar!”

He stopped and turned, as his heart began the familiar slide into his boots. It was none other than Ivanhoe calling him, covering the ground between them in long strides. He was in his mail and surcoat, his hair tied back with a leather thong and a sword dangling at his belt. Oscar clenched his jaw as the knight approached, hands tightening on the warm little bundle he carried.

“Is Wamba about?” Ivanhoe asked. “I was hoping to borrow him for his counsel.”

“He’s in the tribunal,” Oscar ground out, “reviewing the records you sent.”

“So you’re bringing him pie?” Ivanhoe asked, an amused quirk to his brow.

“I used my own coin,” Oscar said defensively, lest Ivanhoe take issue with his use of funds.

Ivanhoe’s brow rose further. “Well done, I suppose,” he said, clearly perplexed by the declaration.

Oscar scowled. Of all the things about Wamba’s situation that galled Oscar, perhaps nothing was so inexplicable and maddening as the way he was not trusted to manage his own purse. It fell to Oscar to keep track of each penny spent on Wamba’s care and make an accounting to the miserly steward each month to justify every expense, all of which were reported back to Ivanhoe.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Ivanhoe said finally, gesturing for Oscar to precede him to the tribunal. So he stalked ahead and pushed open the door. Wamba looked up, blinking in the sudden wash of sunlight.

“That was very fast,” he remarked.

“That’s because I didn’t go to the kitchens,” Oscar said, setting the wrapped pies on the table. The shadow that fell across the room was his warning as Ivanhoe stepped through the door, and he closed his eyes so he would not have to see Wamba’s face light.

“Wilfred!” came the expected greeting. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“I came to inspect your new library,” said the knight, “and to ask if you might be disposed to discuss a small matter of a delicate succession with me later.”

“Yes, of course,” Wamba responded at once. “Shall we go now?”

Oscar clenched his fists, pressing his knuckles into the tabletop. The rough grain of the wood dug into his skin.

“No, no. I shouldn’t like to disturb your work,” Ivanhoe said. “This evening will be early enough. Perhaps over supper. I’ll see if his majesty is amenable.”

Wamba agreed easily, and stood to answer Ivanhoe’s curious questions about the system they had devised to organize the copious records. Oscar stood with his back to the room, holding his silence and concentrating on ignoring the conversation as he breathed slowly.

“What are those, then?” a soft voice murmured in his ear, startling him back to the antechamber. He turned to find Wamba smiling at him, standing very close. He glanced quickly around, but Ivanhoe was gone and the door closed.

“What?” he asked.

“You said they’re not from the kitchens?” Wamba asked, and Oscar realized at last what he meant.

“Pies,” he managed. He quickly unwrapped the steaming pastries, showing them to Wamba, who took one with a delighted grin. His enthusiasm made Oscar smile as well.

Wamba sat in his hard high-backed chair and began to eat, picking at the crust with his fingers. The room held only one chair, but Oscar had transported a folding field stool from the garrison for his own use. He flipped it out and settled across from Wamba, tucking into his own meal.

“Did you learn something?” he asked as he ate.

Wamba nodded, holding his pie carefully so that he did not lose any of the savory filling. “I’ve only just begun, but I believe I’ve found an example of the sort of unjust ruling his majesty meant. I’ll have to read further to see if there’s a pattern, though, or if it’s just a single unfortunate incident.”

“What happened?”

“It seems a boy was brought in last spring for misdirecting travelers on the road, forcing them to journey further than necessary to find lodging and putting them in danger of bandits.”

“What did they do with him?” Oscar asked, taking another bite.

“The judge, a Lord Brix, gave him ten lashes and had him pilloried.”

“Is that not an appropriate punishment?” While Oscar served as scribe in the tribunal, and frequently discussed the matters brought before Wamba with the magistrate, he was not as well versed on the laws and the penalties they prescribed for various misdeeds.

“It is quite a harsh sentence for someone so young,” Wamba said, “though it would not be unreasonable if his intent was malicious. If he was in league with the bandits, for example.”

Oscar could not help but think of the intricate lattice of scars that decorated Wamba’s own back, proof of the torment laid on him when he was no more than a boy, and wonder that he could still call ten lashes a harsh punishment.

Pushing the thought aside, he swallowed his mouthful and asked instead. “Why do you suspect it was unjust?”

“It seems one important fact was recorded but disregarded. The boy was employed as a stable hand and general dogsbody at one of the local inns. The very inn, in fact, where he was sending travelers. He was directing them away from a closer alternative.”

“He must have been told to do it,” Oscar realized.

Wamba gave him an approving smile. “That is my conclusion as well, based on what information I have. Perhaps the magistrate did not realize the connection, or the idea of a larger scheme did not occur to him. Though I am more disturbed by the possibility that he knew, and chose to sentence the boy anyway.”

“Is there some way to be sure?”

“Perhaps. If your friend the archivist might be enjoined to lend us the aid of his records, we can attempt to identify any connection between this Lord Brix and the innkeeper.”

“I’ll go speak to him tomorrow,” Oscar offered.

“Thank you,” Wamba said. “In the meantime, we should start making a list of observations, and points for further investigation.”

Oscar swallowed the last of his pie in one enormous bite, standing to retrieve a fresh roll of parchment and a quill. He made a few quick notes on what they had discussed, then glanced from the slim volume lying open before Wamba to the tall shelves, appreciating for the first time the enormity of what Wamba had been asked to accomplish.

“This is going to take longer than I thought."

Wamba smiled. “Then we shall have much to keep us occupied through the winter. Shall we read on?”


	4. Chapter 4

Oscar carried the scrolls with him the following morning, as they made their way to the tribunal. Farren met them at the gate as he always did, waiting to accompany Wamba across the short open distance. Oscar had suspected for some time that the big guard captain did not have an especially high opinion of him, but Farren was devoted to Wamba, and so they had come to something of a lukewarm understanding. He nodded a greeting, and Farren returned it, turning to lead the way across to the tribunal.

They entered through the antechamber, and Oscar deposited his scrolls there, intending to retrieve them and make his way to the archives at noon. He turned in time to see Wamba pulling at the collar of his dark blue robe, making sure his clothing was in order before he stepped through the doors and into his official role. The cuff on one of his sleeves had turned back on itself with his fidgeting, baring his bony wrist, so Oscar reached out to straighten it, giving Wamba’s hand a light press as he pulled away. It won him a small, private smile from Wamba, before he took a breath to center himself and led the way into the tribunal hall at last.

Farren gestured for Oscar to precede him through the door, a glint of amusement in his eyes despite his stern expression. While he had never made mention of it, Oscar was certain that Farren knew about the change in his relationship with Wamba. Farren was too observant, and too constantly in Wamba’s company, not to have noticed the difference in him. Oscar took his silence on the matter as approval, though he was acutely aware of the need to do nothing to arouse the big man’s protective instincts. In some ways, Farren was a more intimidating figure even than Ivanhoe.

The hall was more crowded than usual, the long rows of benches completely filled and a number of people standing at the back as well, their chattering voices bubbling in an excited hubbub that faded gradually as Wamba’s entrance was noted. He did not hesitate, but walked purposefully to his table on the dais and unfurled his scroll, while Oscar took his place at the small scribe’s desk near the antechamber door. Wamba still kept his own notes, though they were sparse and largely composed of questions of late, the main task of recording the details of the different matters and disputes now Oscar’s instead.

Farren called the tribunal to order, while Randall the round-bellied bailiff came forward and said something to Wamba, too quietly for Oscar to hear. There a brief, hushed conversation, then Wamba nodded, and Randall stepped back to announce, “The prisoners will be brought in first. Those with disputes should return tomorrow.”

Oscar felt his brows climb, curious at this deviation in the usual pattern of the tribunal. He leaned forward over his table to watch as the side door opened and a string of men, chained together at the neck and wrists, began to file in. His mouth dropped open as they continued to appear, like fish on a string at the market, shuffling in resentfully before the prodding hands and halberds of the liveried guards. Suddenly the commotion of the crowd began to make much more sense to Oscar.

By the time the door closed, eight men were lined up before the dais, the chains that bound them together filling the room with the ceaseless chime and chatter of their restless shifting and fidgeting. Oscar looked down the row of dirty faces, taking in the shabbiness of their torn clothes and the expressions they wore, frightened but defiant beneath a motley collection of bruises. The prisoner at the head of the line bore the most pugnacious scowl, staring defiantly up at Wamba, who had yet to acknowledge any of them. That man was also the oldest, and appeared to be close to Wamba’s age. Oscar glanced to the other end of the line, to the younger prisoners, and was startled to find a very familiar pair of blue eyes staring at him beneath a fringe of sandy hair.

Oscar blinked, and blinked again, trying to dispel the illusion, but his eyes had not deceived him. It was no other than his childhood friend Simon standing there in chains, taller and rangier than Oscar remembered him, but unmistakable despite the changes. Oscar knew he was gaping. Simon’s face reflected back the same incredulity, even as he elbowed the burly figure beside him, pointing bound hands at Oscar as he murmured something urgent to his neighbor. The taller man turned to look at him, and Oscar was stunned to recognize Milo as well. He immediately began to search the rest of the faces for Raff, though the last member of their little band was not among the prisoners.

The four of them had been thick as thieves as children, rolling about in the dusty streets wrestling or causing mischief for the merchants in the market, though Oscar had not seen any of them in years, not since the night when they provided him the key that let him into the tower vaults, setting in motion the misadventure that had ultimately led him to Wamba. He had tried to seek them out once, on one of his visits to his brother, but Simon’s mother would tell him only that her son had left home and nothing more. It was a shock to see Simon and Milo now, out of place and unsettling in a strange and unexpected intersection of Oscar’s new life with his old.

They were still staring at one another when Wamba asked, “What is the charge against these men?”

Randall answered, “Your lordship, I present for the justice of the crown the gang of miscreants that has been terrorizing Cheapside the past year.”

Wamba tilted his head, looking from man to man. “How is they came to be assembled here?”

“With the help of a number of the good citizens of London, they were tracked to their hideaway in Coleman Street yesterday evening. They were apprehended by the watch and taken to the cells, where they have spent the night.”

“Then I commend the watch on a job well done,” Wamba said, “but for my own curiosity, how is it they are so certain that these men are indeed the culprits?”

The bailiff was clearly expecting this question, as he pulled out a scrap of parchment from a pouch on his belt and offered it to Wamba. “A number of valuable personal items have been stolen by the gang. Many of them were found in the same house where these men were arrested.”

Wamba took the parchment from his hand, and spent several long moments reading down the list, before he looked up and out across the crowded hall. “Am I correct in presuming that the owners of the stolen items are present to make a claim against these men?”

“You are, your lordship,” Randall said.

“Then their claims shall be heard,” Wamba said, “but first I must ask, how answer you men to these charges?”

He looked from one prisoner to the next, though they all dropped their faces rather than meet his eyes, save only the eldest, whose defiant stare did not waver. Wamba met his gaze calmly.

“What is your name?” Wamba asked.

“Why, I’m Lazarus,” the man smirked, his words dripping with mocking insolence.

“Indeed,” Wamba said, without so much as a twitch of his brow. “What say you to the charge that you have willfully and forcefully taken that which is not yours, Lazarus?”

“I say the stupid twits got no more than they deserved, but it weren’t me that did it.”

“Are you the leader of this little band?” Wamba asked.

“We’re a collective,” came the derisive reply, “and no captains among us, just equal shares.”

“While the idea is noble, I have found that in practice men tend to appoint themselves a leader. By your demeanor, I am forced to conclude that man is you.”

The man who called himself Lazarus snorted. "You'll get no more from me."

“What of you other men? Does none of you wish to speak for himself?”

The question was met with silence, that stretched to uncomfortable length as Wamba waited, only the constant shuffling of the chains breaking the silence. Finally, Wamba looked to Randall again. “Very well. Let us hear the claims of the victims.”

One by one, people stepped forward from the crowd in the hall to tell their stories. Oscar shook off his shock and began to write frantically, scratching down the details of every story, the names of the accusers and the injuries they had borne, some still fresh beneath splints and bandages. Each person was asked to identify a culprit, and Oscar recorded this as well, giving every prisoner a number to keep them in order, and wincing each time Simon or Milo was the target of an accusingly pointed finger.

By the time every person with a claim had spoken, Oscar’s handwriting had grown so erratic it was nearly illegible and his fingers were liberally stained with ink. It was an immense relief to lay down his quill and stretch his cramped hand beneath the table. The noon bell began to toll, the usual signal that the tribunal had come to a close, but Wamba remained where he was, regarding the line of bound men before him critically. The crowd was still, waiting for his next words.

Wamba laced his fingers together on the tabletop, and said calmly, “I find it hard to believe that such young and able-bodied men had no recourse but to resort to a life of criminal acts. Since you have chosen to offer no defense, you will be judged on what I have heard from those you have wronged. If you have a change of heart between now and your sentencing tomorrow, you may tell the guards, and your words will be taken into account.”

With that, he nodded to the bailiff, and the string of men was led away again, back out by the door through which they had entered to be conveyed to the cells for one more night. Farren dismissed the tribunal, and Wamba stood at last, coming to stand beside Oscar.

“How is your hand?” he asked quietly, noticing Oscar shaking out his cramped limb.

“Not yet skilled enough to stand such a volume of complaints.” He tried for humor, but knew he had missed his mark when Wamba’s brows furrowed.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Oscar said, glancing out at the guards barring the main doors of the hall. “Don’t you have to meet Ivanhoe?”

“Wilfred does not mind waiting.”

“I’m really fine,” Oscar insisted, forcing his lips to form a smile. “You go ahead. I’ll bring these.”

Wamba was clearly not convinced by the smile, but he conceded with a short nod, leaving through the antechamber with Farren on his heels.

For a long time, Oscar sat in the empty tribunal, staring out over the abandoned benches and watching dust motes swirl in the beams of noon sun shining through the two tall windows that flanked the doors. Then he stood, and gathered up his notes, rolling them tightly. The archivist forgotten, he dropped his scrolls in the antechamber made his way to the dungeons.


	5. Chapter 5

Oscar was quite familiar with the dungeons. Even now, the sight of the low-ceilinged rows of cells lining the long, arched corridor made his guts squirm uncomfortably remembering more than one anxious stretch spent locked behind steel bars waiting to discover what his fate would be. Though no terrible punishment had ever befallen him, thanks to Wamba’s intervention, the sight of the prison was still a discomfiting reminder of his inglorious start in the castle.

More comforting was the familiar face of the young soldier standing guard in the front chamber.

“Dunstan!” Oscar called, grasping his arm warmly. Dunstan was the most unlikely of his friends, what began in resentment and rivalry transformed by a common adversary into a strong bond. Dunstan was also Oscar’s sometime sparring partner and instructor, though Oscar had long abandoned any hope of besting the heavily built soldier in a fair fight.

“Oscar.” Dunstan nodded and gripped his arm in return, but did not smile. “What are you doing down here?”

Oscar considered for a moment concocting some pretense, but decided that Dunstan was friend enough to aid him without the deception. “I need to talk to the prisoners,” he said simply.

As expected, Dunstan shook his head, sending muddy brown hair falling into his eyes. “My orders were to let no one pass unless they requested to give testimony. They haven’t asked to speak with anyone.”

“They’ll speak with me,” Oscar told him, with absolute certainty.

Dunstan regarded him skeptically, and crossed his arms. “What business do you have with a street gang?”

Oscar mirrored the challenging pose. “I could just tell you that I was sent by Cedric.”

“You weren’t,” Dunstan replied, eyes narrowing.

Oscar sighed, and let his arms fall loose to his sides. “No, but I do think I can help him.”

“How?”

“I know two of them,” Oscar confessed quietly, tipping his head in the direction of the cells. “I can get them to talk.”

“You’re certain?” Dunstan asked him, and Oscar could see he was wavering. It was no small thing he was asking, enlisting Dunstan to violate his orders for Oscar’s sake, so he nodded, and let the soldier mull it over for a long moment.

Finally, Dunstan gave in. “Be quick about it. They’re together in the first cell.”

He stepped aside, and Oscar clapped him on a densely muscled arm as he passed. The cell that held the prisoners was large and bare. The entire front wall was made up of sturdy iron bars, set deep into the stone of the dungeon floor and ceiling. The other three walls were lined with iron rings, at various heights, and it was to these that the eight prisoners were secured by chains, threaded through the cuffs that bound their wrists. They were a picture of dejection, leaning against the walls and staring at the floor or up at the small narrow window and the slice of sky beyond.

It was the one who had called himself Lazarus who first noticed Oscar. “Well,” he sneered, “if it isn’t the magistrate’s pampered little pet.”

Simon’s head shot up. “Oscar!” he cried, eyes wide and disbelieving.

“You know him?” Lazarus scoffed.

Simon nodded, his eyes still fixed on Oscar. “He’s my friend.”

The declaration made Oscar’s throat tighten uncomfortably. It was so very like Simon, to accept that this simple truth was unchanged despite the years and circumstances that now separated them. He looked away, searching out Milo instead and receiving a silent nod. Lazarus was watching him suspiciously now, and the rest of the prisoners had turned their curious gazes as well, and Oscar realized he would not be able to talk to Simon with the whole lot of them watching.

He retreated quickly to where Dunstan waited. “Can you unchain one of them for me?”

“What?” Dunstan demanded. “You said you just wanted to talk. Now you want me to release one of them?”

“Not release,” Oscar said reasonably. “You can move him to another cell. Lock me in with him.”

“Why?”

“He won’t tell me what I need to know with the others there. I need to speak to him alone.”

“I’m not supposed to open the cell.”

“Please?” Oscar entreated. “It’s important, and it’s the only way.”

Dunstan frowned at him, making his displeasure plain, but he sighed and followed Oscar back to the cell, pulling a set of keys from his belt to open the heavy door. “Which one?”

Oscar pointed out Simon, whose eyes widened when he was abruptly unchained from the wall and forced to his feet. Dunstan did not pause, shoving Simon before him into the corridor and deeper into the dungeon, to an empty cell two doors down. Oscar followed, noting that Lazarus’s suspicious glare had only darkened as he watched one of his band being separated from the pack.

Dunstan quickly secured Simon inside the new cell, and stepped back to let Oscar enter. He closed the door, shoving the key into the lock but hesitating to turn it. “Are you sure about this, Oscar?”

Oscar smiled. “I’ll be fine,” he assured the soldier, “and if he attacks me, you’ll hear me shout.”

“You’ll be lucky if I come to your aid,” Dunstan grumbled, but locked the door and trundled off to secure the other cell once more.

Simon was staring at him, his habitual smirk flattened in a serious line. Oscar crossed the cell and took a seat on the floor close to him.

“How did you get to be so familiar with the king’s guards?” Simon asked suspiciously

“I work here now. As you saw.”

“What happened?” Simon burst out suddenly, waving his bound hands as far the chain allowed. “We waited for you all night, but you didn’t come back. We thought the guards must have found you and flung you in a shallow grave.”

“Nearly,” Oscar shrugged. “I was caught, and kept prisoner for a year. My brother knew where I was. He could have told you.”

“We talked to your brother. Every day for a month at least. He said he hadn’t seen you. He was just as frantic as we were.”

Oscar realized that this could easily have been the case. He had been at least two months into his sentence before he had worked up the nerve to ask permission to let Emmett know where he was. Though this was hardly the most pressing matter.

“Look, I don’t have time to explain it all now,” he said. “Did you do the things they said you did?”

Simon looked away, and quickly back. Oscar could not quite tell if the look in his eye was shame or mistrust. “Yes,” Simon said at last, “but we never meant to hurt anyone.”

“Why did you do it then?” Oscar demanded, still unable to reconcile the friends he had known with the deeds of which they had been accused in the tribunal.

“It was just a bit of fun,” Simon insisted. “John said we could make a little coin and have a laugh.”

“John?” Oscar asked. “Is he Lazarus?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Yes. Don’t know where he got that one.”

Oscar pressed on. “He’s the leader of your little gang?”

Simon glanced out through the bars at the corridor, as though John might be there, waiting to pounce. He leaned forward and dropped his voice as he said, “Yes. He’s the one who brought us in. He makes the rules and gives us our assignments.”

“Is it just you and Milo? What happened to Raff?”

“He was smarter than either of us. Got himself apprenticed to a tanner. Haven’t seen him in years, just like you.” Simon’s laugh was rueful, though it brought with it a faint hint of the carefree boy of Oscar’s memory. It made him inexplicably sad to see it. He reflected that this whole situation would have been much easier if Simon had changed beyond recognition.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” he said quietly.

Simon leaned forward, a gleam in his eye that was growing brighter. “You’re close to the magistrate, aren’t you?”

Unbidden, an image arose in Oscar’s mind, of being close enough to Wamba to feel his breath fill his chest on an inhale, feel his body tight around his cock. He shivered and flushed, pushing the thought desperately away.

“I suppose,” he muttered, swallowing and tugging at the collar of his tunic that suddenly felt too tight.

Simon had not noticed his discomfort. “Can you do something?” he asked eagerly. “Get him to let us go?”

“Not on the merit of what I heard today. If there was any other reason why you turned to stealing, there might be a chance. If you tell him honestly, he will take that into account.” He looked at Simon seriously. “Will you talk to him?”

“John told us not to talk. He said the magistrate couldn’t prove it was us if we didn’t confess.”

Oscar raised a dubious brow. “I’d say he has more than enough proof without a confession on your part, but he will listen if you explain yourself.”

Simon chewed his lip briefly, fidgeting against the chains that bound his wrists. Then he shook his head. “I can’t. They won’t ever trust me again if I turn traitor.”

“Is it worth a harsher sentence to keep their trust?”

“You don’t understand, Oscar. My family won't talk to me. They’re all I have now.”

Oscar did not know how to respond to that, but to wonder if this might have been his fate, he had not decided to sneak into the castle that long ago night, and pity his friend.

Simon stared at him imploringly. “Can’t you talk to him?”

Defeated, Oscar nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

He called to Dunstan, and Simon was returned to his original cell. The soldier looked relieved that their little breach of protocol had not been discovered, and accepted Oscar’s warm thanks with a faint smile. Oscar returned to the tribunal for the abandoned scrolls, thinking hard on how to best approach Wamba on the matter. He was still pondering this while he and made his way back into the castle.

He was barely inside the gate when his distraction caused him to run headlong into another person, his scrolls tumbling from his hands and scattering on the grass. He cursed, and turned to offer an apology, only to find Ivanhoe looking at him with a raised brow from less than a foot away.

“Oscar,” the knight said. “Wamba was looking for you.”

“Where do you think I was going?” he grumbled, gesturing to the scrolls scattered across the grass. He bent to retrieve them, startled by the hand that clamped down on his arm as he rose. Ivanhoe’s eyes were narrowed now, hard and annoyed.

“I’ve had quite enough of your rudeness,” Ivanhoe growled, the warning in his voice clear. “What wrong is it you think I’ve done you that you feel justified in offering me such blatant disrespect?”

Oscar’s hackles rose, his resentment eclipsing his sense. He felt it, but could do nothing to stop it. “You know very well,” he snapped.

Ivanhoe’s grip on his arm tightened painfully. “No, I cannot say that I do. But you’re going to tell me.”

“I have to take these to Wamba,” Oscar protested, waving the scrolls.

“Not urgently enough that you did not have time to traipse about on your own business, apparently,” Ivanhoe said darkly. “You’re coming with me.”

With that, he stalked back to the castle, dragging Oscar with him all the way.


	6. Chapter 6

Oscar tried to free himself more than once, but Ivanhoe’s iron grip on his arm was inescapable as he marched Oscar through the castle toward his chambers. It was only once the door was closed behind them that Ivanhoe released him with a short shove, propelling him toward a pair of tall chairs before the dark hearth.

Oscar stumbled to a stop on the flagstones, glaring at the knight and rubbing at his arm where a bruise was no doubt forming already. His scrolls were badly crushed from the rough handling. Oscar very deliberately kept his eyes on Ivanhoe, studiously ignoring the bed behind him, the very place where he had discovered Wamba and his master together, after the noble had taken his pleasure. Just the thought turned Oscar’s stomach. He glared harder at Ivanhoe to cover his discomfort, and the knight returned the black look with a forbidding glower of his own.

“Now,” Ivanhoe said, “I have chosen to overlook your appalling manners toward me for Wamba’s sake, but I can no longer ignore your blatant disrespect, as you clearly do not have the sense to curb yourself even in public view. You will tell me the source of this rancor, and we will find a way to address it, or I will see you corrected as many times as necessary for you to learn your place.”

He advanced on Oscar as he spoke, the threat clear in his gaze and his stance, but his manner only enraged Oscar further. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to throw a blow at the knight’s handsome face. Instead, he ground out through clenched teeth, “You can do what you like to me. It doesn’t matter. I still won’t forgive you for what you made him do.”

Ivanhoe’s brow rose, a silent question. His gaze bored into Oscar, commanding him to elaborate. He resisted, trying to best Ivanhoe, but his impatience was once again his undoing.

“I know you bed him,” he snapped at last. “I saw you.”

Ivanhoe’s other brow rose at once to meet the first. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What is it that you think you saw?”

“I saw him in your bed,” Oscar said again. “You used your power over him to force him to serve you.” Just saying the words evoked the image, of Wamba curled small and bare in the bed that still commanded Oscar's attention, lurking just in the corner of his sight, refusing to be ignored no matter how he tried.

Unexpectedly, Ivanhoe stepped back. He heaved a gusty sigh, shaking his head at Oscar. “Have you ever known him to be frightened in my presence?” he asked. “To shy from my touch?”

Oscar frowned, searching back through his memories like pages in a journal and realizing that he could recall no time when Wamba had not welcomed the touches and embraces that Ivanhoe bestowed. “No,” he admitted grudgingly, “but I saw his face that night, before he left to meet you. He was frightened then. Why would he be frightened if he was not unwilling?”

“You speak of things you do not understand,” Ivanhoe said, the anger in his voice ripened to quiet sadness.

Oscar snorted. “I understand that he could not refuse you, and you made use of that.”

“You do have quite a dismal opinion of me,” Ivanhoe said, and stalked past Oscar to lower himself into one of the chairs beside the hearth. “What you saw was comfort, nothing more.”

“He was comforting you?” Oscar turned to look at the knight, but did not follow him.

“No, Oscar,” Ivanhoe said, exasperated. “I was comforting him. After Avery.”

“What does Avery have to do with it?” Oscar asked.

Ivanhoe looked up at him for a long moment, his frown growing more pronounced, before he shook his head and rubbed at one brow with a thumb. “Of course. He never told you.”

“What didn’t he tell me?”

When Ivanhoe spoke, his words were slow and deliberate, and he held Oscar’s gaze. “That he gave himself to Avery to spare you the same. That he bought your freedom with his body, just as he did mine.”

Oscar’s throat tightened painfully, a chill washing over him from the top of his head to his ankles, as though he had been doused in icy water. He stared at Ivanhoe’s serious face and choked out, “That’s a lie.”

“No,” Ivanhoe said gently, his gaze sympathetic now. “It is the truth. If you ask him, he will tell you the same.”

Thinking back, he had recognized Wamba’s disquiet on the way back to London, the sleeplessness and refusal to eat, the deepening agitation that Oscar could not remedy. He had attributed it to the horrors that Wamba had seen in Avery’s lands, the tragedies that darkened his face when he returned to their guest chamber each night. Oscar remembered leaving Wamba behind there on the last night. He remembered also the look on Wamba’s face when he sent Oscar and Devy away, the resolve there beneath the usual fondness, and Farren’s urgency to find him, and the slightly unnatural smile Wamba had worn when he appeared in the stable yard. 

“Why?” he choked.

“Surely you know why,” Ivanhoe sighed. “Wamba might have kept himself for my father for the rest of his life, given the chance. Instead, he chose to give that up to protect you.”

“If Avery…” he trailed off, unable to voice the words. “What did you do?”

“He needed comfort, and to reclaim the choice over his own body. So I did what I could for him.”

Oscar thought about this, trying to understand, though he could not help but ask, “It was only the once?”

“I do not make a habit of taking him to my bed,” Ivanhoe frowned. “I have no desire to steal him from you, Oscar. I never did. I want only his happiness, and I have been convinced for some time that you are capable of giving him that, if you can but cool your impatient temper and accept that you are not the only one who cares for him. He means a great deal to me. By making an enemy of me, you only hurt him. ”

Oscar needed suddenly, urgently, to see Wamba. His head buzzed oddly, as though these new revelations were bees that had made a hive of his skull. “I have to go,” he told Ivanhoe.

The knight stood, and took him by the shoulders. “Do not punish him for this, Oscar,” he said meaningfully. “It takes much for him to trust, and he has trusted you.”

“Not enough to be honest with me about Avery, apparently,” Oscar snorted, looking away from Ivanhoe and clenching his hands tighter around his battered scrolls.

“He has told you about my father,” Ivanhoe said, “and Torquilstone, which is a tale known by precious few. It is not to me to permit or forbid you his company, only to say that as you should be aware of the value of what you have been given, and take care not to be reckless with it.”

“I have to go,” Oscar said again. Ivanhoe dropped his hands and nodded, letting Oscar leave at last. He closed the door behind him, and took one shaky breath before he set off to find Wamba.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters in italics occur outside the main storyline and usually depict past events.

_Wilfred returned to Rotherwood in early spring. The apple trees were just beginning to blossom, and the Greenwood was perfumed with the scents of new life. Nature wove joyful harmonies, the barking of fox pups layered with the rustle of spindly-legged fawns scrambling through the brush and birds chasing one another through the air in amorous abandon. Wilfred found himself quite in sympathy with them, for he was also of a romantic humor as he made his way north, to the waiting arms of his affianced bride._

_As he rode, Wilfred reflected on the past year. He had departed Rotherwood in late summer, leaving Rowena to make arrangements for their wedding. He had made her a promise that he would return in all haste, only to become embroiled in the final rebellion of John against the return of his brother the king. Battles had been fought, plots uncovered and foiled within the court, the nobility culled of the traitors and the power hungry opportunists. Richard’s power was consolidated at last, though it was deep winter before Wilfred felt assured of the king’s safety and the support of the nobility enough to leave London. By that time, they were well into Lent, and the wedding was postponed once again by circumstances until the Easter feast was passed. Now, that time was nearly upon them.  
_

_Rotherwood was as he remembered it, the sprawling castle stout and resilient as its old lord, and nearly as stubborn. Over the years, it had been a home and a prison by turns for Wilfred, though now he felt nothing but happiness and anticipation at the return. The gate opened as he was sighted, the porters piling out of the gatehouse to cheer his arrival. The garrison turned out as well, soldiers in and out of uniform streaming out into the yard to welcome him, along with stable hands and servants as word quickly spread. He smiled and waved to this hastily gathered crowd, laughing at the boisterous welcome._

_Then the door of the keep opened, and the familiar broad-shouldered form of his father appeared. Cedric looked across the distance, over the heads of the crowd, and smiled. Amazed at this unexpected warmth, Wilfred returned the smile, until another figure emerged from the castle and his attention was stolen completely. Rowena was dressed in a gown of deep forest green, her auburn hair gathered beneath an airy veil the shade of young ivy, revealing the fine features that Wilfred had so sorely missed. He leapt at once from his horse, trusting his squire to see to the beast’s care. He swept purposefully through the crowd, eyes on his beloved, until she was before him at last and he dropped to kneel at her feet, one hand over his heart._

_“What a sight for longing eyes you are, my love,” he declared, unbothered by the titter of the onlookers. “Pray let me kiss your fingers and profess my devotion, if you would but find me worthy.”_

_Rowena sniffed. “What sins must I have committed that my beloved is content to make me wait an eternity for his hand? Not enough to leave me behind while he ventures off to glory and the tents of dark-haired foreign temptresses, no doubt, he abandons me in favor of his king. Persist, and you will return to find me married to another who was less slothful in his devotions.”_

_Wilfred reached out and took her hand, staring earnestly into her sapphire eyes. “My love, you know you are the queen of my heart, the only being I have ever desired. What sacrifice can I offer, what trial must I overcome, to convince you of my sincerity, that my heart is true and yours alone?”_

_Rowena smirked. “You can marry me, sir knight, and make of me at last that which I have waited ten years now to become. Make of me your wife.”_

_“Oh, my love,” Wilfred declared with a swelling heart, “it shall be as you command. At once.”_

_“No, beloved,” Rowena chided him. “For your tardiness, we have lost the chance and must now await the proper time.”_

_Wilfred made a show of his great consternation. “Until then, lady,” he implored, “pray grant me leave to be in your presence and take strength from your infinite grace.”_

_“Yes, yes,” Cedric interjected. “Take pity on him, as the lovestruck fool is evidently so deranged by his emotions that he has no words even to offer a gesture of filial obedience before he flies to your feet.”_

_Wilfred’s shoulders tensed at the stern words, but when he shifted his gaze at last to his father, he found only a mild humor in his expression. Bemused, he stood and bowed to Cedric. “Father. I trust you are well.”_

_“Well enough,” Cedric said, a hint of a smirk on his lips, “and now that you have fulfilled your duty to your father, you may accompany your bride to be to her bower, along with the usual chaperon, of course.”_

_Wilfred could not help but grin, leaping forward to offer Rowena his arm, which she took with a smile. Arm in arm, they walked through the castle to Rowena’s private garden. Her motherly maid Elgitha trailed them on their way, taking a seat on a bench near the door and pulling a bit of embroidery and a needle from her apron to keep herself occupied while Rowena and Wilfred wandered beneath the trees with their tender young leaves and reluctant buds._

_Rowena was just as he remembered her, if slightly more peaceful than when he had seen her last, in the aftermath of Torquilstone. She was clearly well recovered from the ordeal, and it showed in her easy smile. That thought brought to mind again Cedric, and his unusual demeanor._

_“My father seems somewhat transformed,” he remarked._

_Rowena laughed and nodded. “He has been of a milder disposition of late, and quite indulgent of all of my demands for the wedding.”_

_“Old age catching up with him, perhaps?”_

_“Perhaps,” Rowena smiled at him, a knowing glint in her eye, “but then again, perhaps it is something else, or rather someone else, that has softened his heart.”_

_“Do I take your meaning correctly?” Wilfred said, one incredulous brow climbing toward his hair. “My father in love?”_

_“Whether it is love, I cannot say,” Rowena shrugged, “but there are rumors that his bed has been less lonely of late.”_

_“A lover?” Wilfred gaped, for this was even more startling than the thought that some austere widow might have caught his father’s eye. “Who?”_

_“It is said that Wamba has been spied coming and going from his chambers.”_

_“Wamba?”_

_Wilfred felt his expression collapse into a frown. Rowena was watching him curiously, surprised by this dark reaction, but Rowena did not know what he did. She did not know what had happened to Wamba in Torquilstone, the hidden scars he bore that made Cedric’s actions incomprehensible and vile._

_He forced himself to smile, for Rowena’s sake, and asked about the wedding plans instead. She happily took up this new thread of conversation, telling him in great detail about the preparations she had made. He smiled and nodded along with her words, truly overjoyed to be once again in her fair presence, though he could not prevent his thoughts from wandering back to what she had told him about his father, and the grim certainty that he would need to intervene._

_Wamba was in the hall that evening, though he was seated at the lower tables, far enough from the dais that Wilfred could not speak to him, but he was able to study the boy’s appearance. He was much healthier than when Wilfred had left Rotherwood, the calm winter clearly doing him the same good it had done Rowena. He seemed good-humored and content, his words eliciting loud bursts of laughter from the table around him. Wilfred’s stare eventually caught Wamba’s attention, and he turned his head to smile at the knight, giving him a little wave. Wilfred smiled back, pleased to see his friend recovered, at least.  
_

_It was not until the following morning that Wilfred had a chance to speak to him, however, and as luck would have it the meeting transpired in the most uncomfortable manner conceivable. Wilfred was just leaving his chambers, on his way to the yard to join the dawn drills of the garrison, when the door at the end of the corridor opened, and a slight figure slipped quietly from Cedric’s chamber, closing the door carefully behind him._

_“So it’s true.”_

_Wamba jumped and spun around, his eyes going wide and stricken as he spied Wilfred. His dark tunic was rumpled, his hair half mussed, and he must have realized what picture he presented to Wilfred for he immediately began trying to smooth both, though he gave up and fell still as Wilfred continued to watch him without comment._

_“Come here a moment,” Wilfred said at last, opening his door again and ushering Wamba inside. The young jester stood uncertainly just inside Wilfred's chamber, his hands plucking nervously at the cuffs of his sleeves._

_He did not meet Wilfred’s eyes as he whispered, “My lord.”_

_“You’re sharing my father’s bed?” Wilfred asked bluntly._

_Wamba nodded mutely, staring at Wilfred’s boots._

_“How long?”_

_“Since the autumn,” Wamba confessed._

_“How long after Torquilstone?”_

_“Not long,” Wamba whispered. “Two months.”_

_Wilfred could scarcely believe what he was hearing. His father had waited not even a season before moving on the boy. Wamba’s injuries could not even have been healed by that time._

_“Wamba, this must be stopped,” he declared.  
_

_Wamba’s breath hitched. “If you express your reservations to your father, my lord, I am sure he will see your reasoning."_

_"My reservations?" Wilfred said incredulously._

_"He will not let another long silence fall between you for such a thing.” Wamba shook with another hiccuping breath, and Wilfred was stunned to see a tear drip from his downturned face to the stone floor._

_It gave him pause. He stepped forward and took Wamba’s chin in his hand, ignoring his flinch, to tip up his face. The boy’s eyes were wet and red, though he fought valiantly against the tears with several heavy swallows and a deep breath._

_“Wamba, do you want this,” he floundered, hand waving vaguely, “whatever it is with him?”_

_“I do,” Wamba confessed, as more tears fought their way free to trail down his cheeks. “It was my fault. I knew it was wrong, but I asked him for it.”_

_Dumbfounded, Wilfred could only ask, “You went to him? Why?”_

_“He was so kind to me, after Torquilstone, and he said I could ask something for myself. I just wanted to banish the nightmares, at first.” Wamba looked up at him imploringly. “Please do not think poorly of him. He would never have forced me. This was all my fault. You should hate me.”_

_“I don’t hate you, Wamba,” Wilfred said wearily, still fighting to wrap his mind around what he had heard. “I only wish to understand. Your wish is for this to continue?”_

_“For as long as he wants me,” Wamba said quietly, “but not if it will cause a fracture between you.”_

_“Wamba.”_

_The boy startled at the sound of his master’s voice. Wilfred, too, was surprised to find that his father had appeared in the doorway just behind Wamba, and was staring at them suspiciously. Wamba quickly scrubbed at his cheeks and put a smile on his face as he turned._

_“My lord,” he said._

_Cedric’s frown deepened. He lifted one hand to lay it against Wamba’s cheek, rubbing a thumb along flushed skin. Wilfred noted that Wamba did not flinch from that touch. "You’ve been crying.”  
_

_The frown was turned on Wilfred now, a dangerous warning in narrowed eyes._

_“They are tears of joy at this reunion with your son, my lord,” the boy quipped, and to Wilfred's amazement, it worked.  
_

_Cedric looked back to Wamba and huffed a soft laugh, a faint smile rising on his weathered face as he brushed his fingers over Wamba’s cheek again. “Indeed.”_

_Watching them, Wilfred had a small and private epiphany. He could not deny the emotion in that look, the tenderness between them. As improbable as it seemed, they fit one another. Where Cedric was stern and uncompromising, Wamba was adaptable and accommodating. Wamba's wit softened Cedric's temper, while the Saxon’s possessiveness was a balm to Wamba’s anxious need for reassurance. In truth, had he been asked to choose, Wilfred could think of no better match for his father than Wamba. He had evidence enough in the change in his father's temperament that Rowena had noted as well. His affair with Wamba had made him gentle. As it had clearly done the boy good as well, he had no cause to question it.  
_

_“Well, I’m late for drills,” he declared, fighting down a sudden smile that his father surely would not appreciate._

_Wamba looked at him, surprise and hope warring in his features. Wilfred gave him a nod and a wink, brushing past them to make his way down the corridor. He looked back as he turned the corner, just in time to see Wamba’s lips move on some wry comment, and Cedric throw his head back in a hearty laugh._

_Wilfred would speak with his father later, to be certain, but he was hardly in a position to begrudge anyone the happiness of companionship, thinking to his own love, soon to be his forever. If his father could have even a fraction of the happiness that Wilfred now felt, then his son would rejoice for him, and do everything he could to preserve it. The rest was for them to decide.  
_


	8. Chapter 8

By the time he reached Wamba’s chambers, Oscar was furious. He slammed his way into the library, stomping over the threshold and throwing the door closed behind him. Wamba was seated behind the desk with a pile of papers before him, but he leapt up at Oscar’s stormy entrance, eyes wide.

“Oscar! What’s wrong?”

Oscar stopped in the middle of the room and threw the scrolls he carried down on the couch. He stood, breathing heavily and staring at Wamba, so angry that he could not even find a place to start. Wamba circled the desk and approached Oscar slowly with both hands open before him, as though Oscar were a spooked horse that might trample him if he made an incautious move.

“Has something happened?” he asked softly.

Oscar took several deep breaths, bringing his anger under control enough to speak. “Avery,” he ground out at last.

“What about him?” Wamba asked, a puzzled frown furrowing the skin between his brows.

Oscar just glared at him, until realization stole over Wamba’s face, chased quickly by sorrow. “Wilfred told you.”

“I knew you let Ivanhoe have you,” Oscar snapped. “I had no idea Avery was permitted those favors as well. Was I the only one you denied?”

He immediately wished he could snatch the question back. His teeth clacked sharply closed, as if to snap the ugly accusation into his throat once more, but the words were flown and the damage done.

Wamba flinched as though he had been struck, hands dropping to his sides and face going ashen. “Oscar,” he whispered brokenly.

“I’m sorry,” Oscar said at once. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Wamba spoke as if he had not heard the apology, offering a humiliated confession. “Avery was the first, after my master. I did not want him. Wilfred did what he did to help me heal. That was all.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Oscar said again, urgently, reaching out to take Wamba’s hands in his own. They were both trembling. “I just need to understand. Why did you do it? Why would you let that monster do that to you?”

Wamba looked at their joined hands. “I did it because I saw no other way to protect you. All of you.”

“I would never want you to sacrifice yourself to protect me,” Oscar told him.

“It was not your decision to make.”

“It should have been. It was me that he wanted, wasn’t it?” Oscar tightened his hands around Wamba’s. “I would rather have borne it than let him hurt you.”

Abruptly, Wamba pulled away, taking two paces back and wrapping his arms about his own body. “Do not say that. You have no idea what it is,” he said savagely. “None.”

“I do not need to have experienced it to know that I never want such a thing visited on you,” Oscar insisted, “especially not for my sake.”

Wamba smiled, though it was grim and humorless. “Then you understand why I chose as I did.”

They were at a stalemate. Oscar heaved a frustrated sigh. “You should have told me.”

“I admit that I could have been more honest with you,” Wamba said, “but I will not apologize for the choice I made. I cannot.”

Oscar swallowed as the last of his anger petered out, and closed the distance between them to take Wamba’s stiff form in his arms. “I know,” he said quietly.

Hesitantly, Wamba returned the embrace, laying his head on Oscar’s shoulder. His words, soft and earnest, brushed against Oscar’s throat. “I am glad you do not know, Oscar. So glad that my carelessness did not cost you your innocence. That is worth more to me than anything.”

“I am sorry you had to make that choice.” Oscar said, lifting one hand to brush it through Wamba's hair.

“It was the price I paid for my mistake.”

Oscar’s heart cracked at the quiet words, but he fought down the urge to cry and pushed away instead to press a kiss to Wamba’s lips, warm and brief.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, falling back on old familiar patterns to put them back on even ground.

Wamba smiled. “Yes. Wilfred made sure to feed me. You two are very alike, you know. Perhaps that’s why you rub one another so raw.”

Oscar chuckled. “I promise to be more polite to him in future.”

“I shall enjoy watching you try to keep that promise,” Wamba teased him gently.

Rolling his eyes, Oscar went to fetch the scrolls he had brought from the tribunal. They were much the worse for wear by this point, after bearing the brunt of Oscar’s tempestuous moods all afternoon. He flattened them as best he could on the desk.

“I brought you the notes from this morning. Ivanhoe said you were looking for them.”

“Those will be helpful,” Wamba said. He returned to his seat and pulled the notes over to peruse the long list of offenses that Oscar had dutifully recorded. ”I was hoping at least one of them would choose to speak, but they are remarkably loyal to that Lazarus fellow.”

“John,” Oscar corrected him, pouring them both a cup of watered wine from the jug on the table.

Wamba gave him a curious look.

“I went to speak with them,” he confessed, dropping to his own seat adjacent Wamba’s.

“And they were willing to talk to you?”

“Actually," he said, "I know them. Two of them. From before.”

“Really?” Wamba asked, leaning back in his seat and staring at Oscar.

“Yes.” Oscar smiled ruefully. “In fact, they were the ones who gave me the key that let me into the vaults.”

Wamba’s eyes widened. “We never did discover where that key had come from.”

“Anyway, Simon told me that John is their leader. He recruited them, and directed their gang.”

“That is good to know,” Wamba said thoughtfully. “It means they will not all have to hang.”

Oscar jolted upright in his chair. “Hang? You’re going to execute him?”

“The king must sign the order,” Wamba said, taking his cup, “but yes. John will hang.”

“Because of what I told you? Simon only spoke to me because we’re friends!” Simon had trusted Oscar, asked for his help, and Oscar had so far succeeded only in ensuring the death of one of his compatriots.

Wamba set his cup on the table and looked at Oscar. “He spoke to you, and you are an agent of the king’s tribunal. It’s as good as a confession, and his majesty will accept it.”

“He asked me to help him!” Oscar said, unable to contain his dismay.

“And you have, Oscar,” Wamba assured him. “Without you, it is likely they would have all hanged. Now that we know there was a leader, the rest can be given a lesser punishment.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Unless I have very much misjudged his majesty’s temper of late, it will be the whip for all of them.”

“What?” Oscar protested. “For their first arrest? They’ve never done anything like this before!”

“I’m afraid that matters little. They hurt people, Oscar. I am being as merciful as I can. A flogging will not kill them.”

“They were just trying to survive,” Oscar insisted.

“You cannot really believe that, Oscar. You heard what they did, from the very mouths of the people they hurt. I understand that you have friends among them, but surely you must see how grave their crimes are.”

“They were like my brothers,” Oscar said. “I could have been one of them.”

Wamba’s head was shaking even before he finished speaking. “I cannot believe you would ever resort to such cruelty. Even when you were stealing, your intentions were good. These men think of no one but themselves.”

Oscar had only one piece left to play. “If it were me, would you send me to the whipping post?”

Wamba just looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, “You already know the answer to that question, Oscar.”

Oscar did. Of course he did. How could he ever forget Wamba taking the blame for his theft, throwing himself between Oscar and his punishment and willingly accepting a flogging to protect him. He flushed, and wondered idly how many times he could possibly betray Wamba in a single hour.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, disgusted with himself and exhausted by the unusually tumultuous day.

He was surprised when a cool hand closed over his. He looked up into understanding dark eyes. “I wish I could spare you this, Oscar. I do. But I must uphold the integrity of the tribunal.”

Oscar swallowed and nodded. “They’ll have their lives.”

“I will do whatever I must to convince his majesty of it.”

“Thank you,” Oscar said, as his tears got the better of him at last. He lifted Wamba’s hand to his mouth, laying kisses along his knuckles and wondering once more what he had done to deserve this man.

Wamba stood and leaned down to hug him, but Oscar was not content with that. He wrapped both arms around his lover’s narrow waist and pulled him down into his lap, holding him close and wetting his robes over his chest with slow tears. Wamba twisted to wrap his own arms around Oscar’s shoulders, cradling his head and dropping kisses in his hair.

“Still so very soft-hearted,” he murmured fondly.

Oscar held him tighter still. Avery, Simon, Ivanhoe. Oscar had been in the wrong on every count. Wamba always acted with the very best of intentions, and Oscar consistently failed to remember it. Despite his failures, Wamba absolved him, again and again. Oscar wondered what he would have to do to no longer be worthy of that forgiveness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

The tribunal was once again filled to capacity, as the people who had been harmed by John’s gang gathered to hear what punishment they would reap for their crimes. Wamba was calm and inscrutable as he took his place on the dais, though Oscar knew his composure for the mask it was, after watching him stand in the antechamber for long minutes, breathing deeply and forcing his shaking hands to calm. Farren carried the warrant that bore the king’s signature, sentencing seven men to public flogging, the last to execution.

Oscar met Simon’s eyes as the prisoners were brought in, wishing that he had even some small measure of Wamba’s skill at disguising his emotions, for Simon’s face fell at once at whatever he was able to read in Oscar’s expression. He was quite obviously steeling himself, as were the others, trying to stand straight and meet their fates bravely, though they looked on the whole more like repentant children lined up for a thrashing than a dangerous gang of criminals.

Only John remained defiant, glaring at Wamba as though the magistrate might fall down dead from the force of pure malice. Oscar found it hard to feel other than pity for him, knowing that he would be dead before the day was out. For the others, he could not help but wish the outcome could have been different. He held tight to the truth that his friends would live, even if they might hate Oscar afterward. He spread his scroll open on his little desk, and watched Simon’s face as Wamba began to speak.

“Before I pronounce sentence, I will ask one more time. Is there no man among you who wishes to address the tribunal? To explain your actions, or to apologize to your victims?”

For a moment, Oscar thought that Simon would respond. His mouth opened, and he took a breath, but before a sound could pass his lips, John reared back and spat at Wamba. The ugly little projectile flew wide, and Wamba did not acknowledge it, impassive as ever as one of the guards seized John by the collar and forced him to his knees, dragging his neighbor down with him by their shared chains.

“We’ve not got nothing to say to you, king’s dog,” John growled. “We live as we please.”

Wamba ignored him, looking down the line at the rest of the prisoners. Oscar willed them, one of them, to say something, but they all dropped their eyes, too much in thrall to their leader to defy him.

“Very well,” Wamba said at last. “Then hear your sentence for the wrongs you have visited upon your fellow citizens of London. For the crimes of theft and banditry, you will each receive twenty lashes in the public square.”

“Flog us if you want, we’ll come back stronger,” John snarled, fighting against his chains, though he must know the effort was futile.

“You, who call yourself Lazarus,” Wamba continued calmly, “for the crime of instigating and marshaling your fellows to criminal deeds, have been deemed by his majesty the king a danger to this city too great to allow to remain. You will be hanged until dead.”

The hall burst into a cacophony of voices, as the crowd reacted to the pronouncement. John screamed something unintelligible, but Oscar was not looking at him. He was watching Simon’s face as the sentence was announced, his stomach turning at the way his friend’s face drained of all blood, eyes widening in horror. Milo was stoic, but beside him, one of the other men began to cry.

Wamba spoke again, his voice level even as the crowd continued to chatter. “Punishment will be delivered this afternoon, in the public square. All those wishing to bear witness should gather there at the mid-afternoon bell.” He nodded to the bailiff. “Please remove these men.”

John had to be carried from the hall, as he continued to fight and curse and scream. Oscar looked away, to Wamba, who was just a touch paler than he had been, and gripping his quill so tightly it had snapped in half. Wamba realized what he had done, and set the broken quill quickly aside, flattening his palms on the wooden surface of the table to steady them.

“What do we have next?”

There were thankfully no new prisoners that day, only a string of mundane disputes that were more an opportunity for frustrated commoners to air their grievances against their neighbors to a sympathetic ear than anything that required serious intermediation. There were more than usual, no doubt owing to the fact that the entirety of the previous day’s tribunal had been devoted to the trial of John’s gang. Oscar dutifully recorded each complaint, and the judgments given, and was glad to see the doors close behind the last of the crowd at noon.

He quickly rolled his scroll, then went to Wamba’s table to collect his as well. Wamba had yet to rise, sitting still and quiet in his chair as Oscar approached. Oscar reached for the mangled quill, turning it in his hand and watching it spin like a toy at a fair.

“Poor thing,” he said lightly, “done in before its time.”

Wamba blinked up at him, the faint hint of a smile edging in at the corners of his mouth. “It did its duty well. I’m sure it’s earned a rest.”

Oscar looked at him, at the weary lines around his eyes, and wished he had the nerve to kiss Wamba outside their chambers. He reached out and let the tip of the quill brush Wamba’s cheek instead, winning a soft look. Then Farren was there, frowning at both of them.

“Two hours?” he rumbled.

Wamba heaved a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. “Yes.”

“Where are you going?” Oscar asked, reaching for Wamba’s scroll, which he noted was blank.

“To the square,” was the soft reply.

“You’re going to watch?” Oscar asked incredulously.

“I always do.”

“Why?” Oscar could not pretend this did not surprise him. With all he knew of Wamba, he would have assumed the man would stay as far as possible from any reminders of his own nightmares.

Wamba smiled sadly. “It was my word that placed them there. It is my duty to see it through. I must not forget the weight of my decisions.”

“Is that the king’s opinion?”

“No, Oscar. It is mine. You should get something to eat. I’ll be back before supper.”

“What?” Oscar squawked. “No. I’m going with you.” It had never occurred to him that he would not accompany Wamba on this terrible errand.

“There’s no need, Oscar,” Wamba said gently. “I know they are important to you.”

"You’re more important." The words had gone before he had even considered them. He blushed, but his impulsive confession earned him a small, affectionate smile that he accepted as fair compensation for the embarrassment of Farren witnessing his candid declaration.

“As you wish,” Wamba said at last.

They set out a few hours later, after Oscar had tried and failed to convince Wamba to eat. There was already a sizeable crowd when they entered the square, gathered around the platform where the gallows stood, beside two stout poles with iron rings set into their tops. Oscar had watched public floggings before, but always from the ground, where the anger and bloodlust of the mob fueled his morbid fascination with the punishment itself. It was different, standing above the crowd in the little box reserved for the nobility, watching the heaving mass of people below shift and sway with their impatience for the spectacle to begin.

New also was the keen awareness that he had never had such a personal stake in any punishment. Though he might wish to, Oscar could not escape the conflicting emotions born of this unpleasant necessity. Among the men being dragged through the crowd, up onto the platform, were two of his friends. Beside him, his lover agonized still over the decision he had made to put them there, steeling himself to watch the consequences play out.

Oscar stood close by Wamba’s side, Farren on the other, as the first two prisoners were brought up. Both were strangers to Oscar. He watched as they were stripped of their tunics and bound by their hands so they dangled from the smooth, sturdy posts that stood atop the platform. The executioner wasted no time after the sentence was announced, bringing the whip down on the back of the first man. Oscar flinched at the sharp retort, and felt Wamba beside him do the same, his hands clenching on the railing that lined the platform.

Oscar could only imagine what it was like for Wamba to watch, to listen to the snap of the lash and the screams of the criminals, to remember viscerally the experience of being in their place. Oscar’s own back was unmarked, but it was only because of Wamba that this was so. He had been willing to take a lashing himself to spare Oscar, though he spared himself nothing, and was now forcing himself to watch not one but seven floggings, plus a hanging on top of everything.

The prisoner screamed after three, and fell silent after sixteen. Oscar kept count in his head, wishing that time would flow faster and wash them to the end of this terrible day. His wishing was useless, as after twenty agonizing strokes he finally dared take a breath, only to remember that this was just the first of seven. Soon the lash was singing again, the second man was screaming, and then they were both taken down to make way for the next pair, and then the next. Oscar was aware of his friends when they were brought up, Simon the very last, but the greater part of his attention was on Wamba, who watched, true to his word, even as his gaze grew more and more remote with each vicious blow dealt to the prisoners.

Then the floggings were done at last, and only the worst to follow. John was brought up kicking and fighting, three guards wrestling him into place beneath the noose. They covered his head with a black hood, and he bared his teeth as his face disappeared from view, defiant to the end. The drop was abrupt, his struggles brief, and Oscar finally turned away. Wamba was distant, hardly aware that the spectacle had ended, so Oscar took his arm and led him from the square, as the crowd dispersed. Farren followed silently at their backs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for moderately graphic depiction of torture and execution.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

Wamba still had not emerged from wherever he had retreated inside his mind by the time they returned to the castle. Oscar settled him on the couch in the library, building the fire before he ran to the kitchens to fetch milk and honey, hoping the favorite mixture of Wamba’s would make him feel safe enough to find his way back to Oscar. He warmed the drink in a small iron pot over the flames, and delivered it into Wamba’s hands in a heavy mug.

“Thank you, Oscar,” Wamba said distantly, and Oscar was glad to realize that Wamba was aware of his presence, though his hands could not quite hold the mug steady to drink. So Oscar sat beside him, and wrapped his own fingers over Wamba’s around the rough clay sides of the mug to help him. Gradually, he became aware that the tremor in Wamba’s hands had spread up his arms, into the tightening muscles of his shoulders and back. Wamba was on the verge of a debilitating attack from his own body thanks to the ordeal he had put himself through.

Oscar returned to the kitchens at once to have water sent up to fill the bath, and collected a tray of thin broth and bread while he was there, though he was grimly certain he would have no luck convincing Wamba to eat for the rest of the day at least. He focused instead on the bath, on making sure it was the perfect temperature, and liberally mixed Wamba’s medicine into the steaming water to relax his cramping muscles.

He led Wamba to the bath, and helped him undress, and lowered him gently into the spacious tub until the only parts of him that were visible above the milky water were his head and the very tops of his knees. Then he rolled up his own sleeves and knelt beside the bath, reaching into the opaque pool to grasp Wamba’s wrist. He held one thin hand firmly in his own while he worked his fingers into the cramping muscles of Wamba's forearm, then his upper arm, gently massaging away the tightness and, he hoped, the pain along with it. Anxious worry pressed in at the edges of Oscar's thoughts, but he pushed it aside to spend his energy on Wamba instead. He was deliberate and thorough, and only when the limb in his grasp was completely relaxed did he move on to the next, pausing to add more warm water to reheat the bath when it cooled. By the time he was done with both arms and both legs, Wamba’s eyes were focused on him, and one hand emerged from the foggy depths of the tub to tenderly cup Oscar’s cheek.

Oscar stared intently into his eyes as he turned his face to press a kiss into Wamba’s wet palm. “Are you feeling better?” he asked quietly.

“I think his majesty has made a grave error,” Wamba said, in lieu of an answer. “I was not made for this.”

“You were. You are so strong,” Oscar said firmly, “but you don’t have to be right now. It’s alright. Let me take care of you.”

Wamba always went to such great lengths, stretched himself to the limit of his abilities to be whatever was required of him. Oscar wanted to give him space to stop pushing, to be not judge or advisor or teacher, but simply himself and all the more beloved for it. He leaned over to kiss Wamba once, just a soft press of lips, before he shifted behind him to dig his thumbs into the tight muscles of his shoulders. He guided Wamba to lean forward so he could do the same to the rest of his back as well, though he was careful around the scars. There were so many of them, far more than the twenty that Simon and Milo now bore. He had tried to count them once, while Wamba slept, but had finally been forced to admit defeat when he discovered they were layered so densely over one another in the narrow patch of skin between Wamba’s shoulder blades that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.

Oscar kissed him there, too, tracing the notches of his spine with his lips and licking water from his skin that bore the taste of bitter herbs. It was a silent acknowledgement of the reason they were here, Oscar gently coaxing his lover back to himself. Wamba’s body was loose now, his limbs relaxed, though his hands still shook when he lifted them to scrub at his face. Oscar reached over Wamba’s shoulders to take his hands between his own palms, pressing them together to still the persistent tremor.

“What do you need?” he asked, low in Wamba’s ear.

Wamba turned his head, craning his neck to kiss the corner of Oscar's mouth. “To stop remembering,” he said quietly.

Oscar nodded, and wrapped his arms around Wamba’s body to pull him up with him as he stood, bracing the narrow form against his chest. Wamba followed, letting Oscar guide him from the bath and stand him before the fire. He tilted his face up to Oscar, lips parted, and the younger covered them carefully with his own. He just lapped at Wamba’s mouth at first, teasing the sensitive skin just inside his lips with the tip of his tongue, and backing away each time Wamba tried to press closer or draw him in. He persisted in this game, until Wamba made a soft, broken sound in his throat and Oscar conceded at last to give him what he wanted. He cupped the back of Wamba’s skull in the palm of his hand, fingers tangling in bright hair as he slid his tongue into Wamba’s mouth. It earned him an approving moan, and a slim body pressed all along his, the heat from the fire drying the moisture quickly from pale skin.

Without breaking the kiss, Oscar began to walk Wamba backward toward the bed, snaking one arm around his waist to hold him steady. Wamba let Oscar guide his steps, trusting him to navigate for both of them. It was only once Wamba’s legs touched the side of the mattress that Oscar finally released his mouth. Wamba was smiling faintly, his eyes darker than usual with burgeoning arousal. Oscar smiled, too, as he stepped away to strip off his clothes.

Wamba seated himself on the bed and watched intently as Oscar’s body was revealed, his appreciation of the sight clear. Oscar let him look for a minute, then took Wamba by the wrists and guided him up onto the bed, turning him to face the wall and shuffling up close behind, so the heat of their bodies warmed the air between them, though the only contact they shared was Oscar's careful grip on Wamba’s wrists. He used that hold to guide his lover’s hands to the headboard and curl them around the solid wood.

“Just hold on,” he murmured in Wamba’s ear. “I’ll see to the rest.”

Wamba nodded, his knees spreading naturally to find his balance. The shift opened him to Oscar, who had to swallow down a powerful wave of tenderness at the vulnerable image he presented. Part of Oscar wanted to wrap him up in blankets and coddle him until all memory of darker things had gone. The rest of him, the larger part, could not resist the temptation.

He peppered gentle kisses along Wamba’s shoulders as he worked him open on slick fingers, using just enough oil to let him slide in painlessly but no more. He wanted Wamba to feel him moving. He knew he had judged correctly when he pushed inside and Wamba shuddered convulsively around him, his knuckles gone white to keep his grip on the headboard. Oscar swept his hands down Wamba’s chest and sides as he set a slow pace, savoring each stroke and building the tension until Wamba was shaking steadily, with pleasure now instead of pain.

“Oscar,” he gasped, a hint of desperation in his rough voice.

Oscar leaned forward to place his hands over Wamba’s on the headboard, pressing his chest to Wamba’s back, enveloping him.

“Can you come like this?” he asked softly, into the hollow beneath Wamba’s ear.

Wamba’s head fell back onto Oscar’s shoulder, baring his throat on another shudder. “I don’t know."

Oscar ran his tongue along the length of the pale neck, winning a whimper. “Let’s try,” he said gently.

Holding Wamba’s hands tight under his own, he moved into him with slow, grinding rolls of his hips, hardly withdrawing, but pressing against as many places inside Wamba as he could reach. The effect was almost immediate. Wamba’s breath sped into harsh pants and his arms quaked as he struggled to hold himself still.

“Tell me if you’re going to fall,” Oscar had the presence of mind to say, his own breath growing short.

Wamba nodded, but Oscar was not certain he had actually heard the words, for it was only a few moments later Wamba was shuddering and shaking as he spilled himself onto the bedding, mouth open on a silent cry. Oscar had to catch him then, as his strength gave out, though his hands never released their grip. Oscar held him up by the waist as he thrust half a dozen more times, and let his climax take him.

He managed to gather himself enough to pull free of Wamba's body before they both collapsed. He carefully pried Wamba’s cramped fingers from the headboard, kissing each one as he turned his lover onto his back where he lay in a sprawl of boneless satisfaction, clumsily returning the gentle kisses Oscar pressed to his mouth.

Oscar pushed himself from the bed to wet a cloth, carrying it back and cleaning Wamba tenderly, rousing him from his sated doze. He threw off the soiled blanket, then shifted them both beneath the remaining bedding, draping himself across Wamba's lax body to rest his head on the narrow chest. Lidded eyes gazed at him, content and exhausted.

“How are you now?” Oscar asked quietly.

Wamba's arms rose to wrap around Oscar's back, holding him close. His eyes slid closed.

“Good,” Oscar smiled, and stretched up to kiss him goodnight. Then he settled his head in its comfortable nest and let the sound of Wamba's slow breaths and steady heartbeat lull him toward rest.

He was nearly asleep when he heard it, more of a soft vibration in the chest beneath his ear than true sound. "Thank you, Oscar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex.


	11. Chapter 11

Wamba was still sleeping when Oscar opened his eyes and lifted his head the following morning. Oscar watched him for a long, peaceful moment, while the slow rise and fall of his chest carried Oscar along with it. He looked young and untroubled in the pale light of dawn, the strain of the previous day faded from his face, and Oscar savored the lazy curl of satisfaction the sight evoked. Then he carefully lifted himself off of Wamba and slid from beneath the blankets and furs, tucking them quickly back into place to preserve his lover’s warm cocoon. He scrubbed his face and dressed, then went to the library to collect the congealed remains of their untouched supper on his way out.

The castle was just beginning to wake, and the tap of his boot heels on the stone floor was the only sound Oscar heard as he made his way through the winding corridors of the tower down to the kitchens. The peace abruptly ended there, as he ducked through the door of the wide, warm room where the cooking fires burned, and into a hive of activity. This early, the scullions were just fetching in the fresh eggs, while steaming loaves were plucked one by one from the ovens on long paddles and lined up on a side table to cool. A cluster of personal servants loitered about the garden door, waiting for the cooks to prepare trays for them to take to their masters and mistresses.

Oscar had never stood on such ceremony. He waded into the chaos of the breakfast preparations, helping himself to two bowls of milky porridge. He threw a handful of ripe blackberries atop each and, deciding Wamba needed all the sustenance he could get, snatched a small pot of honey to drizzle over the lot. Food prepared to his satisfaction, he dodged around a young girl in a stained apron carrying a double armload of cream tuns, and headed for the cellar to fill a pitcher of small ale.

He was nearly bowled over by someone pushing through the door from the opposite direction. He scrambled back quickly, steadying his tray with both hands. The tall, rangy form blocking his way did the same, in a pinwheel of flailing limbs. They both righted themselves, and stared at one another wide-eyed.

“That was close!” Gregory said.

“Too close,” Oscar agreed, with a relieved little laugh.

“Where were you last night?” Gregory asked. “Emma was expecting you to join us.”

Oscar winced, remembering suddenly that he had promised to meet his friends in the stables that night. It had escaped his thoughts entirely, in light of more pressing matters.

“Sorry,” he said, offering an apologetic grin, “Cedric had need of me.”

Gregory gave him a doubtful look, eyes narrowed. Then he shrugged. “Well, you missed some very big news.”

“Oh?” He balanced the tray against his hip while they talked.

“She’d probably want to tell you herself,” Gregory said with a diffident shrug, “but Margaret is pregnant.”

“What?” Oscar squeaked, and nearly dropped his tray again. “Already?”

Gregory snorted, one brow rising toward his orange hair. “Are you daft? It’s been nearly a year since she and Clement got married. I’m surprised it took as long as it did.”

Oscar realized that Gregory spoke sense, and it had indeed been quite a long time since Margaret’s wedding. The pretty blonde maid had married her stablehand husband the previous autumn. It was not uncommon for the girls who married to be gone within a few weeks or months, as their bellies began to swell. Margaret was a rare exception. Nevertheless, Oscar was unprepared for the news. He was comfortable with things the way they were, with his friends and their familiar patterns. To lose Margaret, who had been one of the first to befriend him when he came to the tower, would forever change the nature of their little group.

“How far along is she?” he asked.

“Not too far yet,” Gregory replied, “and she’ll keep working until she starts to show it. You’ll have plenty of time to congratulate her.”

“That’s a shock,” Oscar said again.

“If you say so,” Gregory shrugged. “I’m more concerned with finding a maid to take her place. My father’s put me in charge of picking someone.”

“Really?” Gregory’s father Alard was the king’s steward, and notorious for keeping tight rein on every aspect of the royal household. It was unusual that he would entrust even this small task to Gregory.

“I was surprised as well,” the tall young man admitted, “but he wants me to do it, and now I have to decide whether to find a replacement from among the servants or bring in someone new.”

“I’m sure you’ll choose splendidly,” Oscar told him, “and then you might get to be steward one day after all.”

It was a well tread joke between them, and Gregory rolled his eyes in response. A moment later they were finally chased from the doorway by one of the cooks, so Oscar bid Gregory farewell and went to retrieve the ale and make his way back to Wamba.

He was only a few corridors away from his destination when he happened to glance down toward the guest chambers and spied a familiar figure walking away from him.

“Margaret!” he called, pausing mid-step.

She turned, a pile of linens in her arms, and a sweet smile appeared on her face. “Hello, Oscar.”

“I hear congratulations are due,” he said, with a pointed nod.

She laughed, walking back toward him. “Was it Gregory or Emma that told you?”

“Gregory,” he said, “along with quite a bit of grumbling about finding your replacement.”

“He just had to be a grump about everything,” Margaret said fondly. “He has plenty of time.”

“I suppose Clement is pleased?”

“Oh yes,” she smiled, a happy flush in her cheeks. “He’s going to be quite the proud father.”

Oscar returned her smile on instinct, but his humor was stolen by a sudden twinge of realization that the joy she felt now was something he would never know. As long as he remained with Wamba, he could never marry, never have a family, and the unfairness of that verged on crushing.

“You’ll be missed,” he said sincerely.

She clucked her tongue and teased. “Don’t worry, Oscar. You won’t be lonely without me, and if you are, you know you could probably have your pick of the kitchen girls.”

Pushing the sudden melancholy away, Oscar forced a smirk onto his face. “That’s the second time someone’s told me that, but considering the source I’m nearly certain you’re all working together to have a laugh when I do something to embarrass myself.”

“Would we do that?” Margaret asked innocently.

“I have no doubt of it,” he laughed. He hefted the tray in his hands. “I’d better go, before this is too cold to eat.”

"Later, then." Margaret gave him a little wave and turned to go about her interrupted duties. As he walked, he contemplated the situation in which he found himself. Oscar had rarely stopped to think, in his dogged pursuit of Wamba, of what he was giving up by choosing such a love for himself. At the time, it had not felt like a choice at all, but the fervent command of his heart that he could not but obey, no matter the sacrifices required.

This was his feeling again, as he shouldered open the bedroom door and caught sight of Wamba, who had curled in his absence into the space that Oscar had left, his knees drawn up and hands tucked under his chin. Oscar set the tray down quietly on the bed table, but the rattle it gave was still enough to wake Wamba, who lifted his mussed head to peer blearily in the direction of the sound.

“Oscar?” he mumbled.

“Who else?” Oscar chuckled, and leaned down to kiss him lightly. “I’ve brought you your breakfast.”

Wamba pushed himself up unsteadily on his arms, the blankets falling from his chest to pool around his bony hips. His eyes were still half-closed, the lethargy of sleep slow to leave him. It was rare to see him so out of sorts, and Oscar smiled as he reached out to run a hand through the tangled thicket of his hair, making a cursory effort to straighten it and laughing at the disgruntled look he received for the effort. He relented, and offered Wamba a bowl instead.

“Why are we eating in here?” Wamba asked, taking the porridge from Oscar’s hands and settling it on his lap.

“Because I like the way you look right now, and want to enjoy it a little longer,” Oscar told him, and enjoyed the flush that rose in response, tinting Wamba’s cheeks and throat an endearing shade of pink. Here with him, it was easy for Oscar to dismiss the things they could not have as inconsequential compared to what they did.

“Have you had a chance to talk to the archivist?” Wamba asked, clearly trying to ignore his embarrassment.

“Not yet,” Oscar said. It was yet another promise that had slipped his mind. “I’ll go today.”

"Thank you."

Oscar watched Wamba ignore his spoon to pluck a blackberry from his bowl with his fingers, dripping a thin string of honey. It was popped into his mouth, though a faint smudge lingered on his lip from the dark juice. Impulsively, Oscar leaned forward to lick the stain away. Wamba laughed softly, and offered the next berry to Oscar instead with a lopsided little smile. Oscar closed his mouth around it, and Wamba’s fingers as well, staring into his eyes as he licked teasingly at the pad of his thumb. Wamba's smile widened, and he pulled his fingers free to tug Oscar in for a true kiss, sweetness bursting between their tongues.

They were late leaving for the tribunal, and every time Oscar looked at Wamba for the rest of the morning his tongue tingled with the remembered taste of blackberries.

As much to end his distraction as to keep true to his word, Oscar left Wamba in the antechamber with the piles of records just after noon and went to speak to Clerewald. The old archivist was burrowed in his warren of records as usual. He looked up at Oscar’s greeting, pushing his wild bush of gray hair clear of his eyes.

“What is it you need now?” He scowled, though Oscar knew better than to be fooled by his gruff demeanor.

“Information,” he said simply, dropping his scroll on top of the piles of papers already spread across the archivist’s small table in no discernible order. “Cedric needs to know more about the nobles on this list.”

Clerewald’s bushy white brows waved like fronds of river weeds as he nodded. “The king’s informed me Cedric’s to have anything he needs from the archive.” He hacked a cough into his hand, one that quickly became a series of rough heaves as he sought to clear his lungs.

“Are you alright?” Oscar asked, rounding the table to put a cautious hand on the old man’s stooped back.

Clerewald waved him off, puffing like an irritated bull. “Just this bedamned cough,” he grumbled. “Leave your list, and I’ll find what you need.”

“I can manage it,” Oscar told him. He had spent more than enough time helping the archivist sort and update his records in exchange for his lessons that he knew where to find what he needed.

“I’ll do it. You’re going to need more than one set of records, if I understand the nature of Cedric’s task correctly.”

“You’re right,” Oscar agreed. “He’s reading the next lot now. I’ll have another list before I have any time to look for answers.”

“Leave it with me, lad,” Clerewald said, taking Oscar’s scroll.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Oscar told him, “to help.”

"Do that."

Thanking the old man once more, Oscar took his leave and went to discover what new mysteries Wamba might have discovered.


	12. Chapter 12

As Wamba had predicted, reviewing the records Ivanhoe had collected did indeed take them through the autumn and well into the winter. Each day, after the tribunal had ended, Oscar and Wamba huddled together in the small antechamber to work through the vast collection of books and scrolls. They combed through all of the most recent cases in exhaustive detail, shire by shire, until at last the final book was closed and returned to its shelf. The results of this first round of investigation were heartening, and Wamba invited Oscar to join him when he went to make his report to the king.

“How many will have to go?” King Richard asked without preamble, seated behind his great desk in his study. He was dressed casually, no crown in sight, though in his richly embroidered red doublet and fine silk shirt he could hardly be mistaken for anyone but the sovereign.

“Not nearly as many as you had feared, sire,” Wamba told him, offering the scroll onto which Oscar had painstakingly copied out the names of all of the judges under scrutiny and Wamba’s recommendation. “Less than one in ten, so far.”

The king took the parchment, scratching thoughtfully at his neatly trimmed beard as he perused the long list of names. “I see that some will require further investigation. How many are you sure of?”

“More than three quarters, sire,” Wamba said, seated before the desk. Oscar stood behind his chair. “I can find no grave fault with their judgments, based on the information in the records. There is no guarantee, of course, that what they have written genuinely reflects their true actions, but to confirm the validity of every record would take quite a bit more time, not to mention a large enough force to visit them all.”

“This is sufficient for now,” the king said. He tapped one finger on the list. “But even if we accept your assumption, that still leaves a goodly number in need of further examination. You have some plan for this?”

“I do, sire. As you know, for this first pass we only considered the most recent records. For the next, we will go further back to see if there are patterns. In addition, we have already begun to look at personal estates of the judges, to determine whether there might be other interests served by their decisions.”

“You speak as though you’ve had some help in this venture.” King Richard noted, and directed a pointed look at Oscar, who braced himself for the inevitable taunting that he was about to receive. The king seemed to find his disdain for authority of any kind particularly amusing, and never failed to seize an opportunity to needle Oscar when one was presented.

“Oscar’s help has been invaluable, sire,” Wamba said evenly, knowing very well where the question was heading. “His knowledge of the archives, in particular, has allowed us to carry on without disturbing the archivist too greatly.”

“So we have at last gained some benefit from all of Clerewald’s time being taken up educating street urchins,” the king smirked. “I am glad to see Wamba’s faith in you was not entirely misplaced.”

“What good is knowledge if I cannot use it in service to my king?” Oscar asked, as snidely as he could manage.

Wamba muffled a surprised laugh into his hand. The king’s brows rose but he, too, was amused. “Yes, well, don’t let it go to your head.”

“He is a picture of humility, my lord,” Wamba interjected, darting Oscar a fond look over his shoulder.

The king just shook his head. “As you are two, I assume I can anticipate a prompt conclusion to this whole matter. When will you be ready to give an opinion on the remainder?”

“Before Christmas, I believe,” Wamba said, serious again. “At the very least, I should have a much shorter list of individuals who should be interviewed in person.”

“Good,” King Richard nodded. “Carry on.”

So they plunged back into the records, slowly working their way back through years worth of judgments, and marrying them with the estate records of the judges themselves. They found a score or so who were clearly working in their own interests, and these were added to the list of those to be replaced. A further handful was exonerated based on their overall records. This left only five who Wamba believed bore further scrutiny. Among them was the very first man who had raised doubts, the Lord Brix, whose mysterious and perplexing rulings showed no discernible pattern, as well as one of his cousins in a neighboring town. Sensing a greater scheme, Wamba sent Oscar to retrieve records for the families connected with Lord Brix in Lancashire, to see who else might have been profited from his position. They were very close to completing their task.

Then, just before Christmas, Oscar succumbed suddenly to an acute malady that laid him low with fever. He woke one morning with a pounding headache and an itch in his throat that no amount of coughing would clear. He was alone in the bed, Wamba nowhere in sight, and Oscar wished urgently to find him. He tried to stand, only to sway backwards when his head spun so wildly he could not keep his balance.

Wamba was there suddenly to catch him, firm hands on his arms guiding him back down into bed. “You’re in a bad way,” he said gently, laying a cool hand over Oscar’s brow.

“I’m fine,” Oscar protested, though his voice was thin and raspy, and just the effort of forcing the words from his throat set him to coughing again.

“You’re not. You have a fever,” Wamba insisted, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Stay in bed. I’ll bring you something to soothe your throat.”

Oscar felt the blankets being pulled over his shoulders, but they were not quite enough to drive out the cold that seemed to have sunk into his very bones. He shivered, floating in a foggy state between waking and sleep, until gentle hands roused him again, guiding him to sit up and pressing a mug into his grasp.

“Drink this,” said Wamba’s voice, through the fog. 

Oscar did his best to obey, taking a mouthful of the salty broth in the mug, but it hurt to swallow and he only managed a few sips before he shook his head and pushed it away, sinking back down into the blankets with a groan. His entire body had begun to ache, but for the one cool spot that was Wamba’s hand on his burning cheek.

“Try to sleep,” said the echo of Wamba in his head. “I’ll be back later with medicine.”

An endless purgatory of tearing coughs and fitful sleep later, he was once again lifted up and forced to drink, a potent wine this time, syrupy with added potions. There were more voices in the room now, but Oscar did not have the energy to decipher the words. He focused instead on one voice, reaching out when he heard it close at last to tug Wamba down with him, the only comfort he wanted. It was only once he had the familiar form close, his head cradled in the dip of Wamba’s chest, that his sleep turned restful at last.

So Oscar was forced to spend Christmas abed. He woke late that morning, and lifted his head to find Wamba watching him with concerned eyes. “How long?” he asked hoarsely. His throat felt as though it had been shredded, and his head still ached, but his thoughts were clear at last.

“Three days,” Wamba replied, tracing Oscar’s cheek with a tender hand. “I was worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar rasped. He laid his aching head down once more on Wamba’s chest, rubbing his cheek slowly against his skin and tracing the edge of one of the scars there with the tips of his fingers. He had a sudden fuzzy memory of doing this in his fever, of thinking that there was no chance of nursing a babe at that breast. Mortified, he pulled his hand away. He could only hope he had not voiced the thought aloud, and if he had that Wamba would attribute it to his delirium.

He slept through the day, and in the evening was recovered enough to sit up and feed himself, drinking down the broth Wamba brought him. The fire was built high and the room very warm, and Oscar felt the cold recede from his bones at last, chased by the warmth inside and out. It was only later that he thought to wonder who had been attending to his daily chores while he was incapacitated, and what they might have seen. None of his friends mentioned it, so he decided to thank his stars that he apparently not been discovered in the magistrate’s bed, and carry on as normal.

He went to visit Emmett and his family early in January, bearing the gifts that he had not been able to deliver at Christmas. Little Peter was overjoyed to see his uncle, and they spent a long afternoon tussling on the floor while Emmett asked Oscar all the questions a responsible older brother should and Mary announced that Peter was soon to have a brother or sister of his own.

“God help the poor thing if Peter is anything like his father,” Oscar smirked, sitting on the floor with his elbows resting on his bent knees while Peter tried to tackle him to the ground from behind, chubby little arms locked around his neck.

Emmett reached down to deal him a cuff about the head. “It’s only because of me that you turned out this well. Imagine what a tragedy you would have been without me.”

Oscar snorted, ready to issue a dismissive retort, when he remembered suddenly Simon and Milo, and the fate they had met. Emmett had seen the danger in their boyish mischief early, had done everything he could to steer Oscar away from that path. It was Emmett, along with Cara and of course, ultimately, Wamba who had guided him to where he was now.

He looked up at his brother, who had taken on the role of father to Oscar when he was younger himself than Oscar was now, despite his own grief for his parents and his doubts. Oscar smiled, sincere. “You’re right. I was lucky.”

Emmett blinked at him, surprised at this candor, eyes warming. Then Oscar grinned, and let his nephew drag him down to the floor once more, making exaggerated choking noises that set the boy giggling madly.

As he always did, he made his way to the Gull and Anvil on his way home. He had sent word ahead to Cara, to let her know he would be coming, but he arrived to find that she was once again away on some business. He had not seen her since his visit the previous summer, when he had gone to confide to her the happy news of his new relationship with Wamba. He had begun to suspect that Cara was deliberately avoiding him, though he could not imagine any reason why she should do so. So he once again left her gifts with the girls at the tavern, and asked them to pass along the message that Oscar would very much like to see Cara when she had the time, and resolved to make his next visit a surprise.

It was just after Epiphany that he finally came back to the question of the judges. Wamba had spoken to the king while Oscar was bedridden, and they were in agreement on the short list of men who would need to be investigated further. They were still deciding where to start, when a sudden bit of news solved the question for them.

“A land dispute?” Oscar asked, when Wamba told him over their quiet supper one night.

“Yes,” Wamba said, tearing a crust of bread to pieces with his fingers. “It seems that Lord Brix has been asked to handle the distribution of lands of a noble who died without a clear heir. There are several claimants to the estate. It’s just the sort of issue that will tell us whose interests he is most dedicated to serving.” 

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll be going to meet him in person, and observe,” Wamba told him.

“Aren’t you worried he’ll change his decision if he knows you’re watching him?” Oscar asked.

“It’s a possibility,” Wamba nodded, “but the size of the estate and the nature of the dispute make it such that if he were to go against the interests of his allies, whoever they might be, he might never recover from it. It’s much more likely he’ll try to find a way to justify deciding in their favor.”

“If you say so,” Oscar shrugged. “When are we leaving?”

“Not for a few months, at least,” Wamba said. “The king has instructed the parties involved in the dispute that they will be summoned to gather after the thaw.”

“Alright.” Oscar was relieved to hear they would not be venturing north in the dead of winter. He would much rather make the journey in the spring, when the roads were less treacherous and the weather more agreeable, particularly as the ache in his lungs had yet to fade completely.

“There’s something else,” Wamba said quietly, dropping the mangled crust, “since we’re going that way.”

Oscar gave him a questioning look. “What is it?”

Wamba glanced up at Oscar, uncertain. “How would you like to come with me to Rotherwood?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

The thaw was late that year. It was well into April by the time word came that spring had finally arrived in York, and the king dispatched a notice to Lord Brix that he should expect a royal emissary before the end of May.

Wamba, meanwhile, penned a letter to Ivanhoe to inform him of their plans and ask his permission to pay a visit to Rotherwood along the way. The reply arrived less than a week later. Wamba took it eagerly from Oscar’s hand when it was proffered, breaking the seal to peruse the words within.

“What does it say?” Oscar asked, watching Wamba’s eyes soften as he read.

“That Rotherwood waits to welcome us,” Wamba replied, though the letter must have been more explicit, for a faint flush rose in his cheeks, a delicate stain of happiness that made Oscar’s pulse quicken.

He had agreed to Wamba’s invitation without hesitation. He had heard much of Rotherwood, and would never forego a chance to meet the people who had known Wamba as he was before he came to London. While Oscar was eager to meet them, however, he could not help but wonder how they would receive him, and what they would think of his role in Wamba's life. His most dire imaginings painted an intimidating picture, of a castle full of people all of Farren’s towering height and wearing his forbidding frown staring him down. Oscar had concluded that even in that unlikely eventuality, it would still be worth facing to learn something more of Wamba, who spoke very little of his past, except when Oscar asked him outright. Oscar watched as Wamba folded the letter, laying it beside the other part of Ivanhoe’s message. Included with the letter was a small box that Oscar had deposited on the table.

“What is it?” Oscar asked, watching Wamba’s face light in a delighted smile as he opened the box and saw its contents.

“Our assurance of safe passage,” Wamba chuckled, and reached inside to liberate a ball of dark green fabric.

“What?” Oscar asked, reaching out to examine it more closely.

Before he could take it, Wamba had suddenly stripped off his shirt, dropping it on the desk beside the box. Oscar paused at the display of flesh, and his distraction gave Wamba time to pull what Oscar now realized was a tunic over his head. It fell long and loose about his hips, draping over his hands. The deep forest green made his skin appear even paler in contrast.

“When one ventures into the Greenwood, it is prudent to wear her colors,” Wamba said, a mischievous smile on his lips. With his hair tousled from the change, he looked like some merry woodland spirit come to life from a song, and a spike of sudden lust lanced through Oscar’s gut.

He rounded the table, advancing with purposeful strides on Wamba, whose eyes widened. His smile widened, just as Oscar swooped down to claim his lips, though his amusement melted quickly into eager acquiescence, his mouth opening to Oscar’s insistent tongue and arms finding their favorite perch around his neck. It was amazing to Oscar that he could still feel so desperate for his lover, after nearly a year of having him, but Wamba kept finding new ways to unwittingly drive Oscar to what he could only conclude must be madness for how effortlessly it stole his reason.

He broke away to gaze at Wamba again, the red of his freshly swollen lips providing a new contrast in the vision of green and gold and pale skin. Wamba was smiling again, a knowing tilt to his lips that matched his laughing eyes. Urgent, Oscar dove back down to ravage his mouth with another consuming kiss as he lifted Wamba up by the hips, taking two steps forward to brace him against the nearest set of shelves and guiding long legs around his waist.

Wamba pulled away when his back touched the shelves, laughing. “There’s a bed just there, Oscar.”

“Too far,” Oscar decided, chasing Wamba’s lips until he captured them again, tangling Wamba’s tongue with his own to counter any further argument. Wamba moaned low in his throat, and wrapped his arms tighter around Oscar’s shoulders, ankles crossing at the small of Oscar’s back to hold himself up. Oscar ground his hips hard into Wamba’s, encouraging the growing hardness there while he kneaded at the sensitive flesh of Wamba’s thighs with the hands supporting him in his precarious position.

Oscar rutted against his captive lover until he could abide the barrier of cloth between them no longer. He broke the kiss at last, panting against Wamba’s cheek as he risked moving one of his hands to tear at the laces of his trousers, loosening them just enough to slip his cock from the confines. He freed Wamba’s as well, and took them both in his hand, stroking them together in a silken hot caress, thumb playing over the crowns. Wamba gasped, his head falling back to thump against the shelf behind him as his hips twitched up into Oscar’s grasp. Oscar braced him more firmly and began to move in earnest, using his leverage to thrust into his fist, sliding against Wamba as he went.

It was over quickly after that. Wamba spilled first, with a soft cry muffled in the fabric of Oscar’s tunic, fingers clenched fiercely tight into the meat of his shoulders. Oscar abandoned his stroking once Wamba was spent, to grasp him by both legs once more, curling his hands under Wamba’s thighs and wrenching him open wide to give Oscar room to thrust hard against the warm skin of Wamba’s belly, knocking him into the shelves in a way that was sure to leave bruises. He was too far gone to care, crushing Wamba’s mouth under a fierce kiss as he tumbled over at last, groaning into his lover’s mouth.

They stayed that way for a moment, chests heaving in uneven rhythm as they sought to catch their breath. Oscar locked his shaking knees to keep him upright, fighting the lethargy that threatened to fold his limbs and force him to the floor. Wamba’s grip had slackened as well, one hand petting the damp nape of Oscar’s neck.

When he finally pulled away and took stock, Oscar could not help his rueful grin. “I’ve soiled your new clothes.”

Wamba smirked at him, very close. “I’m fairly certain this one is yours,” he said, showing Oscar the length of the sleeve, draped far past his wrist.

Oscar pressed his brow to Wamba’s, laughing helplessly. “So it is.”

"Am I to expect this enthusiasm every time you see me in an unaccustomed color?"

Oscar groaned at the teasing. “You cannot know what it did to me, to see you in that red.”

“I had a fair inkling,” Wamba admitted, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s jaw.

Oscar huffed a resigned laugh. “Of course you did.”

Carefully, he lowered Wamba back to his feet, making sure he was steady before he released his hold.

Wamba was smiling at him as he pulled the soiled tunic off over his head. “I’ll likely have occasion to wear it again soon.”

“Only if you want it ruined,” Oscar warned him, and savored Wamba’s bright laugh.

“You’ll have to learn a little self control, Oscar, otherwise we'll get nothing done in Lancashire.”

"I'll try," Oscar said, "but you make it remarkably difficult."

Wamba smiled at him again, soft and fond, as he pulled on his original shirt. "Perhaps I should be less indulgent of your whims, in that case."

Oscar tugged Wamba close against him with an arm around his hips, sliding a hand into his hair and feeling Wamba's breath hitch. "It's too late," he murmured into Wamba's ear. "You've already spoiled me."

He kissed Wamba again, slow and deep and thorough, to prove his point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex.


	14. Chapter 14

Oscar’s tunic was as good as new by the time they set out two days later. He was still somewhat less than confident in his horsemanship, as their last journey away from London, nearly two years past, was his first and only experience with riding, but he swallowed his nerves and mounted the horse the way he had been taught, settling into the saddle and trying to ignore the feeling that he had placed himself at the mercy of a beast that was much larger than he, and could not be reasoned with should it decide to rid itself of its undesired burden.

He shared his reservations with Wamba, who laughed with what Oscar thought was a remarkable lack of feeling for his plight. “She’s a horse, Oscar. She will do as you tell her. You’re thinking too much.”

“I cannot tell her anything, as she does not speak any tongue I can understand,” Oscar said tartly. “You’ll be sorry for your heartlessness when she throws me and I break my neck.”

Wamba graced him with a tolerant smile. “I would indeed regret that very much. So do your best to keep both your calm and your seat.”

Farren appeared then, carrying a bulging pack which he strapped into place behind his saddle. He was the last member of their little party. Oscar had questioned the wisdom in taking no additional guards, particularly in light of what had happened with Avery, but Wamba assured him their small band would be supplemented by soldiers from Rotherwood’s garrison before they ventured any further north.

Farren was in his mail, as usual, and Oscar winced in sympathy for his horse as he swung himself into the saddle, settling his considerable weight onto the animal. It disgorged a resigned sigh, shifting in place. “I see you do not adopt the uniform of the woodsman,” Oscar noted, with a gesture to his own green tunic.

“We two are enough,” Wamba said. “They recognize the king’s crest. Though in truth, in the wood the green is the better protection.”

“What is it we need protecting from, exactly?” Oscar asked, as they set out at a stately walk across the castle yard.

“The men of the wood take the duty to defend their people and their interests very seriously,” Wamba said, pulling his horse close to Oscar’s as they cleared the portcullis and crossed the drawbridge.

“You mean bandits? Why does the king not drive them out?”

“His majesty has a particular fondness for the men of the wood,” Wamba said, in the patient tone he adopted when imparting some knowledge to Oscar. “They provided him needed aid when he returned to reclaim his throne, and they are by and large a force of peace in that wood. They take some liberties with the king’s game, but their presence keeps bandits of all stripes at bay and ensures the safety of the roads for innocent travelers.” Oscar listened to him recount the various deeds of the woodsmen as they left London behind and joined the wagons and other riders on the open road. The sky was clear, and as expansive as Oscar remembered, stretched over the green pastures.

They took shelter at Kettering that night, which was owned almost in its entirety by the nearby abbey and was permeated by an air of solemnity as a result. The inn had only one sleeping room, a long dormitory with beds tucked under the eaves in a single row and other travelers sharing the space. So Oscar was forced to sleep apart from Wamba for the first time months, to his profound dismay. He rested poorly, as did Wamba, as Oscar discovered when he woke from his fitful doze at dawn, and opened his eyes to find Wamba watching him from the neighboring bed where he was curled facing Oscar. They came to a silent agreement, and crept downstairs in time to help Farren with the horses and set out much earlier than planned.

Nottingham on the second night was much more to his liking, the comfortable inn offering strong ale, as well as a cozy room with a sagging mattress on a stout, scarred frame. It was more than satisfactory for Oscar, who pulled Wamba down into the warm nest of the blankets and wrapped him securely in his arms, while Wamba did the same to him, the embrace soothing after the prolonged lack of touch. They tangled their legs together and kissed one another senseless, until they fell asleep between one kiss and the next.

It was on the third day that Oscar finally noticed the sporadic copses of trees around them begin to grow thick, the canopy closing above their heads as gradually, like the slow descent of sunset, the Greenwood materialized around them. Vast knotty oaks crowded close to the path, madly jointed arms jostling with one another in a constant rush and rustle of leaves. Layers of their fallen brethren from years past crunched beneath the plodding hooves of the horses, while the wind whispered through the leaves, fluttering on ahead, and Oscar fancied it carried word of their arrival to the creatures that no doubt dwelt in this enchanted place.

Oscar felt transported, the magic of the wood enveloping him in the cool, dappled shade and soft susurrus of the trees, the aromas of rich, damp earth and blooming life. Wamba and Farren carried on a murmured conversation ahead of him, the sound of their low voices blending with the subtle song of the forest, and Oscar let himself drift dozily in their wake, as they made their way deeper into the forest.

A startled shout, and the peace was abruptly shattered, as a sharp whistle jolted Oscar from his daze, just in time to mark the flight of two arrows. They pelted down into the loam just before the hooves of Wamba’s horse on twin thuds. The horse reared with a piercing whinny, eyes rolling in fright, and Oscar’s danced back as well, forcing him to grab her mane. He held on tight, heart thundering as Wamba stood in stirrups, tugging sharply on his reins to curb his beast. She dropped back to earth, shaking her head with a snort, and he leaned down to pat her neck, murmuring soothing nonsense. Oscar looked wildly about, but could see no trace of their attackers. Farren pushed his mount forward, putting himself between Wamba and the source of the arrows as he drew his sword.

“Show yourselves, villains,” he bellowed.

“Who is it that dares enter the Greenwood without proper permission?” called a nasal voice that Oscar realized, with amazement, sounded as though it came from the trees themselves.

“We are but simple travelers, sirs,” called Wamba, “on our way to Rotherwood, and you can surely see that we have come in good faith with your lord.”

Before Oscar’s eyes, two men with bows drawn faded into view between the branches of a towering oak, followed by a third from the shadows at its base. All were bedecked in the same rich green that Wamba and Oscar wore, so that they blended effortlessly into the wood.

“Your faces are not known to us,” said the man on the ground, “and you ride in company with the king’s guard.”

“We mean no harm or challenge to you,” Wamba said, “on that you have my word.” To prove it, he nudged his quivering horse up beside Farren, and laid a calming hand on his arm, urging him to lower his sword.

The man watched as Farren reluctantly sheathed his weapon once more. “If you are friends of Rotherwood, you are friends of ours,” he said at last, “but we cannot allow you to pass without paying respects to our lord.”

“Of course,” Wamba agreed easily, “we are happy to meet with the lord of the Greenwood. Please lead on.”

The arrows remained trained on them, as their guide led them away from their intended path, deeper into the wood, and his archers trailed behind to ensure they did not attempt an escape.

Oscar leaned over to whisper urgently to Wamba, “I thought you said we were safe.”

“We are,” Wamba told him, perfectly composed.

“This lord sounds like an outlaw to me,” Oscar scowled.

Wamba chuckled. “Oh, he is certainly that.”

Put off by his inappropriate levity, Oscar scowled at the archers behind them as they made their way through the wood. The forest that had seemed so tranquil to Oscar before now felt too close, ripe with menace and danger that might lurk in every shadow. The castle to which they were conveyed was hardly qualified to be called such. It consisted of a low stone wall, only a few feet taller than Oscar’s head when mounted, and a handful of low thatched buildings. The keep alone boasted a second story, from atop which a cheerful voice called down, “Ho! If that is not a familiar face.”

Oscar squinted up at the figure atop the keep, whose jaunty cap and orange goatee gave him a rakish air, though Oscar could make out little of his features.

“My lord,” Wamba called back, light and mirthful, “I was unaware you had forsaken your wild ways and taken up residence in a proper dwelling.”

“Alas, my old oak was a steadfast companion, but I have been obliged by circumstance to comport myself in a manner more appropriate to my station,” came the reply. “As my own castle is somewhat in ruins at the moment, I have taken up residence here at the sweet dispensation of my lady.”

“Is it your lady, then, of whom we should beg hospitality, my lord?” Wamba asked. “For I can think of no other reason why we must shout at one another as though you are a princess in a fairy castle than she had not given you license to open the gate.”

The stranger threw his head back in a hearty laugh. “I see your time in London has not yet taught you to tame your unruly tongue, my fine young fool. Truly, you were ever in need of a drubbing or three.”

“And what is it makes you believe it would do me any good now, when it never has in past?” Wamba asked with a smirk.

Oscar gaped at the familiarity of their bantering, staring at Wamba as their host disappeared and they dismounted their horses. The stranger emerged shortly from the keep, a sly grin on his foxlike face. He appeared somewhat older than Wamba, though younger than Ivanhoe, and supremely at ease in his body. His long leather coat flapped about his boot covered calves, dark hide trousers and a green tunic completing the rough finery of the lord of the wood.

“Look at you! Grown fat at the king’s table.” He moved to offer Wamba a hand, but Farren stepped between them, a scowl on his face. The stranger danced back. “Oho! Brought your giant with you, I see. Peace, soldier. I would harm not a single hair of his head.”

“It’s alright, Farren,” Wamba said. He stepped forward to offer a bow. “A pleasure to see you again, my lord.”

“It is indeed,” agreed the stranger. He looked past Wamba, keen blue eyes assessing the rest of them. “You, I remember,” he said to Farren, “but I do not think we have met.” He smiled at Oscar, and offered his hand. “Robert Locksley.”

"Yes," said Wamba, "though you might know him better as Robin Hood.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Robin Hood?” Oscar’s voice, to his utter humiliation, squeaked with surprise. A thrill ran down his spine, to find himself standing before none other than the famed king of the outlaws himself.

“That was the title I took for myself in my youth,” said Locksley, his smirk widening at Oscar’s obvious awe, “though I have largely abandoned the life of the outlaw in favor of a more conventional existence of stewardship under good King Richard’s rule.”

“If the welcome we received from your men there is any indication, I would say your agents exercise much influence yet in these woods,” Wamba noted.

Locksley shrugged. “My men were loyal, and fought bravely to liberate England from the tyranny of John and his Norman compatriots. I could not reward that service by so carelessly disbanding that which I had assembled them to create. So I have entrusted them the task of patrolling the wood in my stead, and conducting any suspicious visitors to me here.”

“I cannot imagine what grievance they found with our passage, my lord,” said Wamba, “particularly as we have come dressed for the occasion in your assurance.”

“I suspect it was your dour friend in the king’s livery there that gave them pause, but I shall have words with them.” He clapped a friendly hand on Wamba’s shoulder. “Though I cannot say I regret this unanticipated reunion. It has been far too long, my friend.”

Wamba’s smile was warm, and Oscar felt suddenly very out of place, watching the man exchange familiar banter with a living legend. Though, he supposed offhand, Ivanhoe was just as much a hero to the people of England, and Oscar had long ago reconciled the irritating man with the celebrated knight. No doubt exposure would cure this disquiet as well.

A flash of bright robin's egg blue caught Oscar’s attention, and he looked up to see a tall woman descending the steps of the keep, approaching the small yard where they stood. Wamba noted her as well, and bowed.

“The lady, I presume?” he asked politely.

“Ah!” cried Locksley joyfully. “She is indeed. Allow me to present my lady wife Marian.”

Lady Marian had hair as dark as Oscar’s, gathered in an intricate arrangement of shining braids down her back. Her bright blue eyes were nearly the same shade as her gown, which was of rough silk, though somewhat worn about the hem. Like her husband, she seemed to be more a creature of the wild than the nobility.

“Welcome, travelers, whosoever you might be,” she greeted them, “for I can scarce turn away any company that has my husband in such good spirits.”

Locksley laughed. “My love, this is none other than the jester who liberated Cedric the Saxon from Torquilstone and won us the battle that made me my renewed fortune.”

“I have heard the story often,” Marian said, smiling at Wamba, “and I must say I imagined you somewhat older.”

Wamba flattened a hand over his heart in exaggerated shock. “I should hope not, my lady. It would be poor entertainment indeed to witness a greybeard caper about in vulgar motley. By my faith, any conscientious jester should hang up his cap and bell before he is thirty, lest his audience’s laughter turn to weeping at his pitiable fate.”

Marian laughed, charmed by Wamba’s disarming manner. “And have you followed your own decree, then, good man?”

“I am the very picture of efficiency, my lady, and surrendered my official license to folly nearly five years past.”

“Not your knavery, though, I think,” Locksley said with a smirk.

“A man can not be expected to alter his character completely,” Wamba shrugged.

“I would hear more of what trouble you have been causing in London,” Locksley declared. “You will stay with us tonight.”

Wamba exchanged a quick glance with Farren. “My lord, we are expected,” he began, but Locksley cut him off, waving a hand for a servant to take their horses.

“I’ll hear no excuses. It is many years since I had such welcome company as yours.”

“As you command, my lord,” Wamba agreed with a bow.

As Marian turned to lead them into the keep, Locksley ducked suddenly around Wamba to peer curiously at Oscar. “I never did catch your name.”

He stuttered for a moment, then offered at last, “Oscar, my lord.”

“Well met, Oscar,” Locksley said, his mouth curling on a grin. “How is it you came to be in company with this disreputable fellow?”

Oscar opened his mouth, but could not think of what to say to explain. It was Wamba who answered, smiling down at them from several steps up. “It suits the fiction of my position to have a servant,” he said, “though Oscar is much more than that. A capable scribe and dauntless mother hen, among other things, with a streak for finding trouble of which you would no doubt approve, my lord.”

Locksley looked Oscar over once more, considering. “You must tell me more over supper,” he decided at last.

Oscar swallowed, and nodded his silent agreement. Wamba’s description was not an unflattering one, all things considered, though it left out the most important piece of what he was to Wamba. He understood the need for discretion, but knew that this was only the first time he would be dismissed so on this journey, relegated to the rank of servant while in the public eye. It rankled more than he had imagined it would, perhaps more so because it was Wamba who did it.

They were conveyed inside the keep, where the close stone passages were lit by narrow windows just wide enough for an archer to place a target. Farren was offered a small cell on the lower floor, while Wamba was afforded the more comfortable guest chamber at the top of a spiraling staircase, over his protests. A straw pallet was ferried inside for Oscar, though he kicked it into a corner as soon as the servants were gone, refusing to even entertain the thought of giving up his place in the bed with Wamba.

He was somewhat appeased to discover that he had been given a seat at the high table that evening, as had Farren, who remained unflappable as usual as he lowered his bulk into the narrow wooden chair beside the lady. Locksley and Marian were both curious and engaging, delighted with the company and forward enough to abandon propriety and interrogate their guests ceaselessly, and Oscar was compelled to divulge the entire tale of how he had come to be a servant in the royal household. Wamba did not escape this questioning either, as Locksley had taken a particular interest in the series of events that had led the erstwhile jester to London.

“And now a royal magistrate?” Marian asked, once Wamba had finished his tale. “That is quite a lofty advancement for a simple clown, is it not?”

“Indeed, my lady,” Wamba agreed, “though I must confess it to be less of a personal accomplishment and more a function of my station. My service offsets a part of Lord Ivanhoe’s due tribute to the king.”

“I admit this surprises me,” Locksley said. “I cannot imagine what cause he has to keep you collared, after all you did for him and for his father, not to mention the king.”

“That is for my master to know and for me not to question,” Wamba said with a tranquil smile, “but do not feel badly for me, my lord. I am more than content in my lot.”

Locksley watched him closely for a moment, his gaze intent, and Oscar felt something nervous and uncertain squirm to life in his belly.

Wamba must have felt it also, for he set down cup and said, “If my presence causes offense, my lord, now that you know the truth, I will remove myself at once from your high table.”

Abruptly, Locksley was himself again, laughing jovially. “Nonsense. You are my honored comrade in arms, and as such are always welcome at my table.”

“You are too kind, my lord.”

“Though,” Locksley continued, tapping his chin, “if you are still possessed of your more physical talents, I might be so bold as to request a demonstration.”

Wamba’s brows rose in surprise, and he looked at the narrow hall with its two long tables lining either side. Though small, it held a sizeable crowd of soldiers, servants, and woodsmen. “It is many years since I played for such an audience as this, my lord. I should not like to disappoint.”

“You must remember at least a trick or two,” Locksley insisted.

“Yes, come,” Marian added, eyes bright, “you have still some years yet until thirty, and I would see this vaunted talent for myself.”

“Perhaps something simple,” Wamba agreed. He stood, and looked around the table, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully. He reached at last for the short eating knife that lay beside his plate, cleaning it on the cloth that draped the table, then took Oscar’s as well. “If I may?” he asked Locksley, and the lord handed over his own knife with a guffaw.

“Simple, he says, and reaches for the blades.” He continued to chortle as Wamba took two more knives, weighing them in his hands as he sauntered around the table and into the center of the hall.

“Friends!” Locksley called, and the gathered men and women looked to him as one. “Pray turn your attention to our guest. We have a special treat tonight.”

“Before you make such promises, my lord, let us see if I remember the steps,” Wamba said, quirking a grin. He flicked his hands, and suddenly the knives were flying.

Oscar gasped, terrified as the first began its descent, only to be caught in a deft hand and vaulted aloft once more, spinning in a beautiful flashing dance that glinted with shards of orange and red as the blades reflected the flames from the fire at the end of the hall. Oscar had seen Wamba juggle before, but only once, and very briefly. This was something else entirely, a true performance, as Wamba began to lean back, his body curving precariously so the knives danced above his exposed chest, his bared throat, each new toss a narrow escape from bloody disaster.

As one, the hall held its breath, and Oscar swallowed his heart as it fought to crawl up his throat, watching rapt as Wamba came upright again, his hands moving ceaselessly. He glanced over his shoulder, evidently gauging the distance, for once he had he launched the knives high, one by one, and just as the first began to fall, tip pointed straight down, Wamba leapt, throwing himself backward onto his hands just in time to avoid the first two knives, which thumped into the packed earth of the floor where he had been only a moment before.

Oscar gasped, unable to tear his eyes from Wamba as his lithe form curved back on another graceful flip, landing clear of the last of the knives. They stood in a neat line down the center of the hall, hilts tilting left or right as they had fallen. Wamba bounced on his feet and stood straight, with a grin and a bow for the enthusiastic cheers that rose as the crowd's disbelief gave way to elation. Oscar was clapping as well, an uncontainable grin stretching his cheeks.

“You should have seen him before Torquilstone.”

Oscar jumped at the murmured voice in his ear, and turned to find Locksley leaning over Wamba’s empty chair to speak to him, hushed and private.

“What?” he croaked.

“He could do things with his body I have not seen the like of before or after,” Locksley said, and his smile was knowing. Oscar realized belatedly that he must have given himself away, and he flushed. Slowly, he lowered his hands.

“You were there?” he asked. “At Torquilstone?”

“I was,” Locksley nodded.

Before the fire, Wamba was showing a pair of young boys something in his cupped hands. He spun his wrists, and they began to giggle madly.

Oscar looked back to Locksley. “What was it like? He tells me if I ask, but only the facts, as though they happened to someone else. He never says how it felt.”

Locksley smiled again, and for the first time his merry disposition was dimmed by sadness. “I cannot know how it felt for him, to give himself willingly to death to save his master, to spend a day under the hands of skilled torturers, to be forced to live after all of it when he was ready to die. I can only say that I do not think I could have come through it as well as he did.”

Oscar considered that, the truth that he could never truly know how hard it was for Wamba to fight his way back from the darkness into which that day had forced him. Oscar saw glimpses, sometimes, in the way he spoke about it, the look in his eye, the remnants of his nightmares that lingered in daylight, but Wamba only ever shared as much as was necessary to satisfy Oscar’s curiosity.

“I think he’s ashamed,” he said, “of what they did to him.”

“I do not doubt it,” Locksley said quietly. They were both watching Wamba now, as he pulled tiny yellow flowers from the air beside a young girl’s ear. “Honor is a much lauded thing, and rightly so, but it is an uncommon brand of courage that gives one strength to walk knowingly to dishonor, and allow oneself disgraced, to prevent harm to those held dear. The ability to yield rather than fight is a lowly-regarded virtue, because it is a rare one.”

Looking down at his lover’s laughing face, the smile that had survived every attempt to destroy it, Oscar could not help the swelling tenderness inside him for the gentle man. It stayed with him, as the meal was concluded and he followed a cheerful Wamba back to their borrowed bed, where he pulled the blankets up around them and licked Wamba's smiling mouth open and shared sweet, soft kisses with him until he was satisfied that he had adequately demonstrated his affection.

Wamba smiled sleepily at him, as Oscar pushed pale gold hair back from his face.

“Why are there no ballads about you?”

“What?” Wamba laughed.

“What you did was at least as brave as anything Locksley did,” Oscar told him, “or Ivanhoe.”

Wamba favored him with another sweet kiss. "I am content with my minor role. No one wants to hear the tale of an incautious slave who was foolish enough to walk into his prison, not when there are gallant knights and dashing outlaws about to capture imaginations. Their deeds were extraordinary, Oscar. Anyone could have done what I did. I'm as common as a man can be.”

“You’re not,” Oscar said quietly, aching with the need to convey to Wamba how very far from common he was. “Not to me.”

He thought Wamba might brush it off, as he had many times before, but his eyes were liquid and his voice rough as he stroked Oscar’s cheek. “Then you are the rarity.”

Then he kissed Oscar again, and pulled the younger up and over to cover him, whispering a tender invitation that Oscar did not even try to resist.


	16. Chapter 16

Locksley and Marian saw them off in the morning, after a hearty breakfast and a declaration from Locksley that he would be providing them men to accompany them the rest of the way on their journey.

“My lord, there is really no need,” Wamba insisted. “We are less than a day’s ride from Rotherwood.”

Locksley shook his head, waving a hand to dismiss the protest. “It is the least I can do, after the trouble my men caused you yesterday, and I mean for them to accompany you beyond Rotherwood, in any case.”

“I don’t understand, my lord,” Wamba said. Oscar stood by, waiting to hand him the reins of his horse. His own beast was nuzzling at the small of his back in an uncomfortably ticklish way. He tried to discourage her with an elbow without squirming.

“You said you meant to borrow soldiers from Rotherwood for your journey north,” Locksley was saying. “While I am sure that Ivanhoe keeps a competent garrison, you will find no better archers than mine anywhere in England, or beyond for that matter. If you encounter any trouble, they will see you out of it.”

“You are very kind, my lord, but we may be some weeks on this errand. Are you certain you can spare them for so long?”

“Don’t worry yourself about that. I’ve more than enough men to keep the wood secure, and if I find that brigands have made an incursion, perhaps I might take up arms again myself and show them the error of their ways.”

Wamba smiled. “Not quite done writing legends for yourself, my lord?”

Locksley smirked, and winked at Oscar. “Not a chance.”

So their company had grown to five as they set out into the forest once more, the woodsmen flitting about the path, ahead and behind and around to the sides, with only their merry whistling and occasional song to indicate where they might be at any given moment. Oscar occupied himself trying to pick up the tune of their favorite ditty, but he had never quite grasped the knack of whistling. His breath huffed flatly through his pursed lips, making Wamba chuckle, until Oscar could not practice his whistle for smiling.

It was nearing noon when they came upon a fork in the path, a mossy capped boulder sitting at the juncture of the two ways that might have once held some indication of what lay in either direction, though its face was long since worn smooth. Farren, in the lead, turned his horse to take the right fork, but Wamba called, “Wait a moment.”

The big man tugged his horse to a halt, turning in the saddle to look at Wamba. “What is it?”

Wamba was looking up the left path, somewhat more overgrown than its fellow and crowded by the low boughs of the trees and the ferns that lined the edges in a thick fringe. “Do you mind waiting here, just for a short while?”

“What are you going to do?” Farren asked, his frown growing deeper.

“I only thought that Oscar might like to see it,” Wamba said quietly. He looked at Farren, whose stern expression remained forbidding. Then, abruptly, he softened.

“Don’t tarry,” he said at last.

“I won’t. Thank you.” Wamba glanced at Oscar, with a faint smile that did not quite mask his nervousness. He tilted his head in the direction of the overgrown path, and Oscar nudged his horse to follow where Wamba led, curiosity burning.

“Where are we going?” he could not help but ask.

“You’ll see,” Wamba said. “It’s not far.”

He had spoken the truth, for it was only a few minutes later that Oscar sighted a break in the trees, and then the sky opened up above him as he entered a wide clearing, and an immense husk of burnt and crumbling granite came into view. The yellowed stones of the once proud castle were streaked with black ash where they were not grown over with ivy and moss, the forest moving in to reclaim that which men had abandoned. The moat was empty, ferns and wildflowers blanketing the trough and spilling out onto the grass that surrounded what remained of the barbican.

Oscar stared, tilting his head back to look up the impressive height of the remaining wall. “Is that...”

“Torquilstone,” Wamba nodded. "What remains of it.”

It was remarkably peaceful, for a place that had housed such horrors and seen such violence as the battle Wamba had described to him. Oscar continued to stare, trying to ignore the chirping of small birds atop the tumbled down battlements and imagine what it had looked like before fire and the flourishing wood had taken it, the fighting that had raged just where their horses now stood. “Doesn’t it belong to Ivanhoe?”

“Yes," Wamba said. "We have been in his domain for some time now.”

“Why does he let it crumble?” Oscar wondered.

“I cannot say for certain. I know his lady does not favor it. Perhaps they have decided to let the castle fade along with the memories."

Oscar glanced over at him then. Wamba was holding his reins in one hand while the other rubbed unconsciously at his wrist. His eyes were on the ruins. Oscar nudged his horse closer, and reached out to take the fretful hand in his own, catching Wamba’s attention as well.

“Were you frightened?” he asked quietly, though there was no one near to overhear.

“No." Wamba's voice was equally hushed and his eyes were on Oscar's hand. “I was too tired.”

“Locksley said," Oscar began, but could not continue for the lump in his throat. He swallowed. "He said you were ready to die.”

“I was,” Wamba said, “but it was not my master’s will that I do so."

Oscar's eyes stung. For Wamba, not even his death was his own, and though he loathed the circumstances that made it so, Oscar could not help how grateful he was for the result.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said, rough and sincere.

Wamba looked at him then, and his eyes were soft. “As am I."

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

Wamba smiled. “It is a part of me, and I would not hide it from you.”

Oscar returned the smile, and lifted Wamba’s hand to plant a gentle kiss on the back of it. “Come on,” he said, “Ivanhoe will be waiting for you, and I’ve promised to be polite, so we’d best not do anything to annoy him.”

He turned his horse, and glanced back one last time at the ruins of Torquilstone as they ducked beneath the canopy of the wood once more. They returned to the fork in the path. Farren had dismounted and taken a seat on the way stone. Locksley’s archers loitered nearby. Farren stood when he saw them, without comment, and they continued their journey, the woodsmen melting back into the forest. It was still several hours before dusk when they took another fork, and their destination came into view at last.

The wall that appeared through trees was a plain, sturdy construction of wood and stone, clean in its lines and perfectly suited to its purpose, without frill or fancy. Its splendor was furnished largely by the lush green of the encircling forest. The untamed wood crowded close about the gate, giving the impression that one approached the weathered portal along a verdant tunnel, animated by dappled flecks of sunlight.

There was a hearty cry as some unseen watchman on the gate caught sight of them and announced their arrival to the guard. Wamba slowed his mount and slipped to the ground as they approached. Oscar followed his example, hanging back a few paces to gaze up at the impressive height of the enclosure from this new vantage.

The gate banged and creaked as it was unbarred and pulled open, and a stocky figure with a lined, sun burnt face and a thick scruff of dark red hair stepped out onto the path. He wore an immense grin. Wamba's steps quickened, and he dropped his reins just in time to be seized in a mighty, bear-like hug. The stranger pounded Wamba's back with his thick arms in ecstatic greeting, roaring into the slighter man's ear, and for a moment, Oscar was ready to step forward and protest the violent treatment, but Wamba was returning the embrace with equal enthusiasm, so Oscar scooped up his forgotten reins, and simply watched.

“Where have you been, you wretch? Did you get your foolish head turned about in the wood? Did you forget the way home? There was talk of sending the guard out to find you.” His words were rough, but his voice was warm and held no reproach.

Wamba's joyful laugh was stunning. “To think that I mourned the absence of your sharp tongue, Brother Gurth.”

“If the tales I hear are anything to believe, your own tongue is sharp enough for the court.” Gurth knocked a gentle cuff to the side of his head. “You have no need of my mocking in that company.”

“Perhaps, but a growling wolf to my face was ever preferable to a snake at my back.”

Gurth laughed again. “If I know you, you’ve charmed them all to sweet lambs in either case.” He glanced past Wamba for a moment, and caught sight of Oscar for the first time. The young man felt his stomach drop, pinned by that fierce blue gaze. “This must be Oscar.”

“Yes, he is.” Wamba gave him a reassuring smile, seeing the distress Gurth's scrutiny had roused. “But I daresay you will not learn much by staring holes through him. I assure you, he is quite capable of speech, if you find yourself so inclined.”

That earned him another light buffet, and a laugh. “Come inside, then. You’ve had the whole castle waiting for you, while you enjoyed your leisurely stroll through the Greenwood.”

“My apologies. We were delayed by the rather insistent hospitality of a company of woodsmen.”

“Then we are lucky to have you at all.” Gurth slung an arm about Wamba's shoulders and ushered him through the gate, watching his face intently. He was not disappointed. Emerging from the shadow of the wall, Wamba stopped dead, his mouth opening in a small, amazed gasp. Gurth gave him a little shake. “Well? What do you think of old Rotherwood now?”

Oscar could see nothing particularly noteworthy about the castle, but Wamba stared up in frank admiration. “My friend, you have worked a wonder.”

Another shake and a fond pat, and Gurth released him. “I promise you will have a chance for a full inspection later. Now, I will get your horses to the stables. Best not to keep that one waiting any longer.”

He pointed to the main door of the keep, where Ivanhoe stood wearing his long, white surcoat and a relieved expression. Oscar handed Gurth the reins of their two mounts and followed Wamba as he directed his steps toward the lord.

Ivanhoe’s smile was warm. “At last. I feared you had been waylaid by forest bandits.”

Wamba caught the infectious grin. “Oh, we were. Fortunately, they were content to fill our bellies and send us on our way. What has become of the legendary outlaws of yesteryear? If this continues, travelers will be wandering the Greenwood at will.”

Ivanhoe laughed. “It is truly a pleasure to see you here again at last, Wamba.”

“For me also, Wilfred.” Then, to Oscar’s utter surprise, he bowed. “Or perhaps here in your domain, my lord, I should not be so bold.”

“Nonsense.” The knight took Wamba’s arm in a fond grip. “This is still your home, whenever you wish to return to it. There will always be a bed and a place at table here for you.”

Wamba’s composure slipped, and when he spoke it was with lowered eyes. “Surely you offer too kind a welcome, my lord.”

Ivanhoe did not waver, as though he had foreseen this, and perhaps he had. He lifted Wamba’s face with a hand under his chin. “You are family here, Wamba. Never doubt it.” He spared a glance beyond Wamba for the first time. “Oscar. Welcome.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Oscar said, and bit down on his smirk at Ivanhoe’s surprised look.

The knight shook his head, and turned to lead them inside. “Come,” he said to Wamba, “the lady is most eager to see you again.”

Oscar hung back a step, humor flattened. That unnerving feeling had come over him again, the sense that he did not really know Wamba at all. It was slowly dawning on him how much there was that he had yet to learn about Wamba, who was loved by the men and women who had shared his history, whose lives he had changed as surely as he had made his indelible mark on Oscar’s own. The jealousy that Oscar fought so hard to quell clawed its way to life again, even as he resolved to learn everything that he could from the people of Rotherwood.

The hall was cool and dim. Dust danced in the rays of sunlight slanting in through the open door, illuminating the figure who waited there to greet them. Lady Rowena was stunningly beautiful, pale and delicate featured, with flowing auburn hair and jewel bright eyes. Oscar actually took a step back when he saw her, unable to help his awed stare. She was not looking at him, however. Her soft smile was for Wamba, who met her eyes only for one brief instant before he abruptly folded himself to the stones at her feet, head bowed and hands pressed to his breast. Oscar started forward, but Ivanhoe grasped him tightly by the arm, shaking his head when Oscar shot him an outraged look.

Rowena looked down at Wamba with gentle eyes, and reached out to brush a fine-boned hand over his hair. “Come, Wamba,” she said, her voice rich and resonant, “stand and let me look at you.”

“My lady,” he choked out, and did not rise. “My lady.”

Oscar frowned, confused and alarmed at Wamba nearly prostrate, and for no evident reason. The lady was beautiful, but Wamba had surely known this already. Then Ivanhoe released him, and Oscar looked at his face as he stepped back, and sudden realization stopped his breath. He glanced quickly between the knight and his wife. Ivanhoe and Wamba had shared a bed, for one night. If the lady had known, if she had permitted it, it was no wonder that Wamba would humble himself before her.

“Enough of that, now,” Rowena said, and leaned down to grasp Wamba’s hands and draw him to his feet. “You have been away from us for far too long. If you would please me, then ensure that I am not made to wait another five years for a glimpse of you.”

The sound Wamba made was half laugh and half sob, and Oscar wished he could see his face. “As you command, my lady.”

“Now, you must be weary from your journey. There will be a bath for you, and supper at the usual time.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Wamba whispered.

Rowena smiled again, and pressed his hands between hers. “Welcome home, Wamba. We have missed you.”


	17. Chapter 17

_It was spring when Gurth found the boy. Fangs was the first to notice the pitiful bundle of rags, and his gruff bark alerted Gurth to the dirty little child curled in the underbrush just beyond the edge of the path. He had come across all manner of lost and abandoned things in those woods, over the years, but a person was a most unusual find. He dropped to one knee beside the still form, pushing snarled hair caked with mud back from a small, bruised face. The child was pale and gaunt, bones showing clearly where his tattered clothing failed to cover him. Around his neck was fixed a heavy leather collar, tight enough to wear sores into the skin beneath, and the buckle long rusted closed. It bore no name, but it marked the boy clearly enough for what he was._

_“A slave,” Gurth muttered to himself as he turned the boy onto his back, checking to see that he still breathed. “Where did you come from?” Fangs snuffled curiously at the child’s face, laving a dirty cheek with his rough tongue until Gurth pushed the dog away. He stared at the little stranger, considering. If he was a runaway, there was a chance he was being pursued, and Gurth certainly did not need the trouble of being caught aiding his flight. Judging by his frailty, however, it seemed more likely he had been abandoned here by his masters, left to die after he was of no further use._

_Gurth glanced at his dog. “What say you, Fangs? Should we take him with us?”_

_Fangs whuffed, his tail wagging slowly as he stared at Gurth with his earnest yellow eyes._

_“Very well,” he sighed, and reached down to lift the limp child from the ground. He was painfully light in the swineherd’s arms, and it was nothing for Gurth to throw him over a shoulder and continue on his way._

_Between them, Gurth and Fangs drove the swine that were their charge back to Rotherwood, arriving before dusk. Gurth carried his still burden to his small cell, dropping the child without ceremony on the spare bed there. After a moment of consideration, he threw a thin blanket over the unconscious form. Then he went to the hall to find his lord._

_“A boy?” Cedric repeated slowly, one brow raised in obvious incredulity._

_“Yes, my lord. He was near the edge of your lands. His collar bears no name.” Gurth kept his gaze on the floor as Cedric considered this unexpected news._

_“And why do you think I should concern myself with him?”_

_“He is unconscious, my lord. Injured and starved, by the look of him.” Gurth finally raised his eyes, and saw Cedric’s back straighten and his eyes narrow._

_“These are hard times, swineherd, and many have suffered similar misfortunes. How old is this boy?”_

_“Nine or ten, to judge by his appearance.”_

_Cedric tapped his chin with one finger as he thought. “Do you have any space in your cell?”_

_“Yes, my lord.”_

_“Then keep him with you until he can tell you where he came from, at which time he will be returned there.”_

_Gurth bit back a resigned sigh, letting no trace of his displeasure show on his face. “Yes, my lord.”_

_He rubbed his eyes wearily as he walked back to his room. He had known the risk that he would be saddled with the small stranger. He did not want to be responsible for the boy any more than he wanted to be tied to a runaway horse, but he comforted himself with the thought that the boy would be gone soon enough, once he woke and was able to reveal his origins._

_He pushed the door of his cell open and stalked inside. The boy was still wrapped in the blanket Gurth had draped over him, curled tightly near the head of the bed. Gurth’s entrance must have roused him, however, for the child sat upright with a jolt, and looked around at the small room in confusion, before he noticed Gurth and fell still. His timid gaze rose, meeting Gurth’s flinchingly._

_That was how they stayed, while Gurth cursed his foolishness again and considered the best course to take now that he was responsible for the child. Finally, he closed the door and settled on his own bed, across from the boy, though the room was small enough that his knees almost touched the opposite bunk. The boy's eyes fell as he moved, and did not rise again._

_“Do you know where you are?”_

_There was a long pause, then a slight shake of the head._

_“This is Rotherwood, the domain of Lord Cedric the Saxon. You were found on his lands and brought here. He has decided to allow you to stay here until we can return you to your home. I am Gurth. You will be sharing my quarters, for now."_

_There was no response. The boy merely stared at his hands, twisted in the blanket._

_“Do you understand me?”_

_The child’s nod was almost imperceptible. Gurth could not contain his sigh of frustration at the tedious questioning. It was nearly time for the evening meal, but as he looked the boy over he knew he could hardly take such a bedraggled figure into the lord's hall._

_“It will be time for supper soon, but you’ll have to clean yourself first. Follow me, and be quick about it.” It was only after he stood that he thought to ask, “Can you walk? Are you injured?”_

_In response, the child pushed himself to the edge of the bunk and struggled to his feet, standing on wobbling legs while Gurth regarded him skeptically._

_“You're steady enough, I suppose. Come.”_

_Gurth led the way, listening to the quiet shuffle of stumbling feet behind him to be sure he had not lost his new charge. The laundry was nearly deserted, but one of the remaining girls was able to fill a bucket of warm water for him, and even offered to find clothing that would fit the boy. He had still not raised his head, and stood shivering despite the warmth of the room, eyes firmly on the stones as his feet._

_“Quickly," Gurth scowled once they were alone. "Wash yourself and get into those clothes. There will be precious little to eat if we’re late to the hall.”_

_The silent child did as he was commanded, stepping over to the bucket and divesting himself of his rags with shaking hands. Gurth pointedly looked away, his eyes on anything but the bruised little body crouched on the stones. Despite his fear, the boy did an adequate job of bathing, rinsing the muck from his hair as well as his skin, and was soon dressed in the drab servant’s garb that had been provided for him. He dared a glance up at Gurth as he stood before him, awaiting his inspection._

_“I suppose it will do for now,” the swineherd decided. He turned without further comment and led the way to supper. When they reached the main hall, the commotion of the gathered men and women lightened Gurth’s spirits. He moved to a bench with enough space to hold himself and the small stranger, and sat._

_The boy stood behind him, motionless, eyes downcast._

_“What are you doing?” Gurth barked at him. “Sit down.”_

_Hesitantly, the boy sat beside him, and stared at the tabletop. Roasted meats and fresh bread and hearty root vegetables in thick gravy were piled on platters along the length of the wooden tables, being steadily consumed by the hungry people of Rotherwood. Gurth wasted no time taking a large portion of mutton for himself, and a mug of small ale. He was halfway through his meal when he noticed that the boy was still motionless, sitting silently before an empty plate._

_“Have you no appetite? I know you have not eaten this day at least.” With a frustrated sigh, Gurth stabbed a greasy, steaming piece of pork from a platter with his knife and thumped it down in front of the boy, making him jump. He piled half a loaf of fresh bread on as well, with another directive to, “Eat.”_

_The boy moved slowly, glancing frequently at Gurth from the corner of his eye, as though he expected to be rebuked at any moment. He tore off a piece of the bread and placed it in his mouth, chewing carefully. Satisfied that he was eating, Gurth turned back to his meal and his conversation. He brushed off the questions about the small stranger at his side with a gruff dismissal.  
_

_Some time later, Gurth finally looked back to the child to find the meat untouched, and only a small corner of crust eaten away from the bread. He looked at his small charge. “Is your belly full already?”_

_The boy nodded, a minute gesture._

_“Can you find your way back the way we came?”_

_Another nod._

_“Then go, and sleep.”_

_The boy stood, and made his way slowly, a small figure among the boisterousness of the hall. Gurth afforded himself one more exasperated sigh, and turned his back on the scene, hoping to forget at least for some few moments this new burden. Hours later, when his spirits had been lifted by food, drink, and company, and when he felt he had avoided the reality of his timid charge long enough, Gurth rose and made his way back to his small cell. Beyond the door, two empty beds greeted him._

_He swore. It appeared the boy had not known the way back after all. Too tired and too frustrated to go looking, Gurth aimed himself toward his bed. If the boy had run, all the better for him. Lord Cedric was unlikely to remember if Gurth did not mention it, unless the boy was found by another. These were his thoughts when he turned and noticed the small form huddled on the floor. Gurth stopped and stared. The child had laid himself at the end of the bed, in the narrow space behind the door. He was curled with his back to the wall, asleep by all appearances._

_“What the devil?”_

_Gurth slammed the door, and the boy’s eyes shot open as he sat quickly upright. Gurth advanced on him, grabbing an arm that was little more than bones and dragging the child to his feet. “What are you doing down there?”_

_The boy swallowed, but did not speak._

_“Well?” Gurth demanded._

_“S… sleeping.”_

_The small, light voice somehow frustrated him all the more. “Certainly not on the floor. Use the bed.”_

_Gurth crossed his arms and watched as the boy climbed slowly onto the bed, sitting stiffly, head bowed. Gurth noted that his knuckles were white._

_“Perhaps now that you have found your voice, you can tell me your name,” he said._

_The boy’s mouth opened, but he did not speak, and a moment later he bit his lip, eyes on the floor once more._

_“Well? Must I wait an age for every answer?”_

_There was another long silence, while the child swallowed and then at last, in a whisper, “Wamba.”_

_“Very well, Wamba. Listen to me carefully. While you are here, you will do as I say and be very sure not to cause trouble. I am far too weary from carrying you here to abide any more of your interminable wavering, so we will discuss tomorrow where you have come from and how to return you to your master.”_

_Wamba only nodded again._

_“Sleep,” Gurth said. Then he dropped to his own pallet, and snuffed the candle on the small table between their beds, pulling his blanket over his head and ignoring the quick, quiet breaths from the other side of the room._

_The next morning, Gurth woke to find Wamba hunched in the topmost corner of the bed, his body curled and his back to the wall. He had made use of neither pillow nor blanket. Gurth left without waking the boy. When he returned, carrying a loaf of hearty bread and a mug of water, Wamba was awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. Gurth placed the food beside him._

_“I must see to my duties," he told the boy curtly. "Keep out of trouble. We will talk about what to do with you when I return this evening.”_

_Wamba did not look up, so he left and retrieved Fangs. He pondered the odd, silent boy as he drove the herd to their feeding grounds in the forest. It was not lost on him that Wamba’s master must be of the unkind sort, if he let the boy starve and beat him as well. If Wamba had run from that, Gurth was not overly keen to return him to it, no matter the burden it would put on his own precious bit of liberty._

_Gurth returned late that afternoon, and entered his cell to find Wamba just as he had left him, on the edge of the bed. Beside him, the food was untouched. “What are you doing?” he demanded incredulously. It was ridiculous to think that Wamba had been like that since he left him hours ago, but it seemed the only explanation._

_Wamba flinched away from the irritation in his voice. He did not answer. Gurth took the bread in his hand and shoved it against Wamba’s chest. “You must eat.”_

_So Wamba ate, and when Gurth told him to sleep, he slept, and when Gurth did not say anything, he remained silent and still. As the days went on, Gurth found himself more and more unnerved by the timid boy he had been charged to look after, and yet, he still did not pursue the question of the boy’s master._

_Instead, once it became clear that Wamba was not going to wander off and cause trouble while Gurth’s back was turned, the swineherd’s regular visits to the kitchens to speak with Nora became more frequent. She listened, as she had always done, with calm patience while he expounded on the many frustrations Wamba caused him by his timidity. As usual, once he was finished, Nora show him the simple path he could not seem to see right before his eyes._

_“He has been very badly treated, Gurth. He does not know you, he does not know anyone here. Of course he is afraid. You must be patient with him. Just be patient. Why not bring him down with you? Having others treat him kindly can do no harm.”_

_So Gurth did. When he made his evening visit to the kitchens a few nights later, Wamba was hovering behind him in the shadowed corridor like a timid ghost. Nora welcomed him with a smile and offered him a mug of warm milk, which he accepted reluctantly and sipped at sparingly, seated on the floor beside Gurth’s chair in a knot of awkwardly folded limbs. It became their new ritual. Wamba accompanied Gurth when he visited the kitchens, and Nora was always ready with apple slices or bread and honey, or some other treat that she offered to the boy, who became less timorous as he grew accustomed to her warm presence. Gurth curbed his tongue as well, with a conscious effort, and saw Wamba gradually find the courage to meet his eyes more often, to resist the urge to flinch from every touch.  
_

_It was a month before he slept properly in the bed without being told. Gurth walked into their cell to find him curled under the rough blanket, his head on the pillow. His eyes were closed, but the way he stiffened when Gurth entered dispelled any illusion of sleep. Gurth knew the boy was waiting for his reaction. He sat down heavily on his bed and reached across to lay a hand on Wamba’s shoulder. He ignored his cringe and gave the bony shoulder a few soft pats, conveying his silent approval, before lying down and extinguishing his candle._

_It was the first of many small steps that Wamba made. As Nora had predicted, all it took was patience and reassurance to coax the boy to lower his defenses. Fangs proved a valuable tool in this effort, as Gurth began to bring Wamba along with him on his duties, the shaggy mongrel taking to Wamba with the unconditional affection only a dog could offer, curling around him protectively when they stopped to rest along the forest paths. It was another month or so before Wamba began to take food by himself, though his timidity remained at the table for much longer. It was two months after that when he spoke to Gurth without being asked a question, and Gurth did not realize at first that he had heard the light voice at all. When he did, however, he immediately turned his full attention, jubilant._

_Wamba had been terrified by Gurth’s moods, at first, but he did not shy from the rough hands that came to rest on his shoulders, the gentle shake that signaled the swineherd’s approval. He looked up at Gurth’s wide smile, and the corners of his mouth dared to turn up in answer. It was the first smile Gurth had seen from him, and the innocence of it surprised him. Looking down at the small face, clear of bruises now, Gurth decided he might like to keep this boy after all._


	18. Chapter 18

Oscar's eyes opened on a view of an unknown ceiling. He lay staring at it in puzzlement for a long moment. Then he swept an arm over the bed, clutching across the empty space beside him, as he lifted his head to look around at the unfamiliar room and try to recall how he had come to be in this place. He spied a familiar pack, open on the table with its guts spilled across the wood in a tangle of colored fabric, and the previous day came back in a flood of memory.

Rotherwood. The name itself bore an almost mythical quality in Oscar’s mind yet, the distant land that had been Wamba’s world before he came to London. While he always spoke of it fondly, Oscar had never really had any appreciation for how very much this place meant to Wamba, and he to it. The reception he received in the great hall had dispelled any confusion on that count. The meal was a flurry of distractions, as person after person came to greet Wamba, so many that Oscar gave up any attempt to remember their names and simply smiled whenever he was introduced. Wamba hardly ate, standing to greet each person, shaking hands and returning fond hugs, marveling at how they had grown or making sly jokes that sparked raucous laughter. He did, however, drink a fair share of the potent wine on offer at the high table due to the endless toasts to his return, and left the hall in high spirits, chuckling and clutching at Oscar’s arm as they walked.

Oscar wondered that the discretion he had shown in Locksley’s domain has been put aside here, but perhaps it was not so surprising, considering what Wamba had been to the late lord. He detected no suspicion or condemnation on the faces of the people who spied their half embrace, only the same knowing amusement that he had seen in the hall. Regardless, Wamba’s animation was infectious, and Oscar found himself laughing along while Wamba made a series of truly awful puns, until Oscar caught him around the waist and pulled him close to silence the runaway tongue with his own, there in the corridor. He had Wamba backed against the wall, one leg pressed between his thighs, before the sharp tap of boot heels on stone alerted them to the approach of another person, and they hustled quickly on, still laughing.

Eventually, they found their way back to their borrowed chamber. Oscar had wondered, briefly, if they would be housed in the servant quarters, but it was Ivanhoe’s turn to surprise him. They had been given a guest chamber nearly as spacious as their bedchamber in London, with a vast fireplace and a comfortable bed. Oscar looked across the expanse of that bed now, empty and cold, and wondered where Wamba had gone.

Slowly, he rolled to his feet and stretched out his road weary muscles, before he pawed through the tangle on the table for his clothing. His boots were on the hearth, warm from the lingering heat cast by the coals of the fire, and he smiled at this small kindness from Wamba. He pulled them on and ran a hand through his hopelessly unruly hair, then set out in search of his missing lover. He tried to retrace their steps to the hall, but quickly found himself disoriented by the twists and turns of the old castle. He stood for a long moment at the intersection of two corridors, glancing left and right and trying to make up his mind.

“Are you looking for something, lad?”

Oscar turned, and came face to face with a thin, gray-haired man bearing a stack of scrolls in his arms and a curious expression. He wracked his brain, but could not recall whether this person had been among those to greet Wamba the night before. Still, as he was the only one about, Oscar asked him, “Have you seen Wamba?”

The man smiled, amused. “Wandered off, did he? You’re likely to find him in the kitchens at this hour.”

“Oh.” Oscar glanced at the branching corridor again, and rubbed sheepishly at the back of his head as he asked, “Could you tell me how to get there?”

The kitchens, when he finally found them, were wide and warm. A low fire burned at one end and a trio of young maids chattered brightly as they washed and peeled a prodigious mound of vegetables. Their table sat close to an open door, through which the fresh scents of spring wafted pleasantly into the room. Where the kitchens in the king’s tower were a picture of efficient chaos, this low-ceilinged room felt homey, imbued with an atmosphere of welcome by the worn chairs clustered around the hearth and the warm, yeasty aroma of baking that prompted Oscar’s stomach to issue forth a pitiful growl. Wamba was nowhere in sight.

“Miss breakfast, did you?” It was an older woman in a linen apron who spoke, her lined face and kind brown eyes crinkled in a shrewd smile. “Or is it something else you’re looking for?”

“I was hoping to find Wamba here, actually,” he told her, “though I wouldn’t mind a bite if you’ve something on hand.”

“You’ll have to be up early if you want to keep an eye on him. He’s already been and gone.” She took his arm in a weathered hand and led him to the hearth. “But you have a seat. I’ll see what there is left to eat.”

“Thank you,” he smiled. “I’m Oscar, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” she said, pushing him into a chair. “I am Nora, and these are my kitchens. You wait there.”

She bustled off, and Oscar felt his neck prickle, even as he noted the sudden quiet from the direction of the kitchen maids. He looked and found them peeking at him over their shoulders. Oscar winked, and they burst into titters.

Nora clucked her tongue, swatting at their caps as she passed. “Back to work, incorrigible girls. That one’s spoken for.”

Oscar laughed to himself, turning to the fire. The flames were banked low, but they cast a warm glow over the hearth, warming the stones pleasantly. He wondered how often Wamba might have sat here, enjoying the same comfort. Nora was back a moment later, presenting him with a bowl of thick porridge. He took it gratefully from her hands.

You say Wamba was here?” he asked, as he tucked into his meal.

“Oh, yes,” she chuckled, as she pulled a mug from the mantel and began to scoop something into it from an iron pot hanging from a stand over the fire. “Even after all these years, he was up with the sun to help bring in the eggs. I did not think I could be surprised by his stubbornness any longer, but even I did not expect that.”

It was a surprise to Oscar as well. He had never known Wamba to be an especially early riser, excepting those times when his nightmares woke him and refused him much needed rest. He hoped that it was habit and not hostile dreams that had woken Wamba that morning. “Do you know where he went?”

“Not so fast, not so fast,” Nora said. “Stay and eat, and talk to an old woman for a while.” She handed him the mug, and he took it in his free hand, drinking reflexively.

He blinked, surprised to find himself enveloped in a familiar sense of comfort. He looked down at the drink for the first time, and chuckled softly, tilting the mug to examine the honey sweet milk within.

“Is it not to your liking?” Nora asked, lowering herself to the chair across from him.

Oscar smiled at her, genuinely amused. “No. I like it very well. It’s just that I’ve only now realized where he got the recipe.”

Her face lit with delight. “He makes it himself?”

“Yes,” Oscar nodded, taking another mouthful. “Or I do. It is one of his favorite comforts.”

The old woman hummed, and her smile was soft and content. “That is good to know.”

“I recognize your name as well,” Oscar said. “He told me you were kind to him.”

“Kind,” she scoffed. “I merely did what any person with a heart would have done. It was only that he was so terribly unaccustomed to decency. He was so grateful, for even the smallest of things. A blanket, or a crust of bread, or to be spared an angry fist. A gentle touch could ever undo him completely. I have never known a child more obedient or eager to please. It was no hardship to care for him.”

Oscar swallowed. It was too easy to imagine the Wamba she described, small and hurt and scared of needing too much, of being a burden. There were shades of that child in Wamba still, in the way he gave and gave of himself in his duties, his inability to take help unless it was forced on him. Though Wamba was much more than that now. His humor, his mischief, his affection, these were things that Rotherwood must have taught him. “I’m glad he found a safe haven here.”

“Hardly.” Nora shook her head. “He was caught up in the strife between Lord Wilfred and his father within months. Lord Cedric had him beaten half a dozen times within a year, and sent him to Malvoisin for a flogging as well. Small wonder that he went a bit mad from it. It was too much to expect one boy to bear.”

Oscar frowned. Wamba had not told him about any such punishments. He had mentioned the madness, though his recounting was somewhat different. “He told me he only pretended to be mad.”

Nora folded her hands in her lap, and sighed. “It was a mask, but it had a purpose. It protected him, for the time it lasted. I worried Lord Cedric would break him, after Torquilstone. He never could believe that any cruelty done to him was less than what he deserved, and it was a cruelty, make no mistake, to let that child think himself unworthy one second longer than necessary. But the old lord surprised us all, in the end.”

“Did everyone know about them?” Oscar asked.

“There are few secrets in a place like this. Especially when it comes to the lord.”

“And no one had any objection?” Oscar could hardly touch Wamba outside their chambers, for fear that someone would find them out. While his insolence had not gotten him ejected from the tower by the king, a scandal erupting in the court because of his carelessness certainly would.

“Well, there was Oswald, of course, and the trouble he brought,” Nora said darkly.

“Oswald?” Oscar echoed the unfamiliar name.

“Ah,” Nora said, “he has not told you that tale yet. Regardless, there was no other servant of Lord Cedric’s who found fault with Wamba. We all benefited from his mellowed temper.”

“What about Ivanhoe?” Oscar asked, setting the other mystery aside for later.

It turned out Nora was happy to share stories with him of Ivanhoe, and more of Wamba as well, recounting happier tales that carried on long after Oscar’s bowl and mug were empty. He placed them all away in his memory, to keep until he could ask Wamba about them later. Eventually, he noticed that more people had begun to trickle into the kitchen, and the cooking fires were being stoked back to roaring life. Nora rose at last.

“I should be happy to tell you more,” she said, “but it must be at a later time. I have a meal to prepare.”

“Thank you for talking with me.” Oscar stood as well, tugging his tunic back into place. “Do you know where…”

He stopped, startled, when Nora's arms wrapped around him in an unexpected hug. She was soft, and smelled of flour, and Oscar’s mind went blank. Maternal affection was not something he was accustomed to, after losing his own mother at a very young age. For one terrified instant, he felt tears threaten.

“I am glad that he has you to look after him,” Nora said. “I think I will worry a little less now.”

Oscar huffed, and put his arms around her as well. It was no wonder Wamba had such a strong affection for this woman, if she was so easy with her caresses after he had been starved of them. “I will do my best.”

“See that you do,” Nora said sternly, stepping back, “and see that he visits more often.”

“I’ll try,” Oscar promised.

Nora smiled. “If you’re set on finding him, you might try the gatehouse. He meant to speak with Gurth. Just go out that door there to the garden and around the castle. You’ll find him easily enough.”

So banished, Oscar ventured out into the garden. The sun was already past its zenith in the clear blue sky, further proof of how badly he had overslept. He followed Nora’s directions, circling the castle until he came to the main yard and spied the gate through which they had entered the day before. A rough wooden scaffold was erected just to the right of the sturdy portal, and it was this that drew his attention. At its foot, a carpenter was shaving a long, rough log into a square post. Nearby, two stonemasons chipped away at blocks of white granite, while a third hoisted a smooth-sided stone up to the top of the wall on a pulley. It caught on the edge of one of the beams of the scaffold, and the man gave a sharp tug to free it, making the scaffold shudder and the stone sway precariously.

“Careful, there!” came a gruff shout from above. Oscar looked up, and recognized the stocky shape of Gurth atop the wall, peering down at the working men below. He stumped down the gatehouse stairs, rounding the scaffold to berate the man at the pulley and snatch the rope from his hands. “We’re repairing the wall, not knocking it down and starting over!”

Oscar approached them discreetly, sidling around until he was standing where Gurth could see him. When he did, his eyes narrowed. He shoved the rope back into the hands of the other man, with an admonishment to, “Do it properly this time.”

“Hello,” Oscar offered, as Gurth stalked over to where he stood.

“I was wondering when you’d be showing up,” was the brusque response.

Oscar hesitated, unsure whether Gurth was truly displeased with him or merely irascible. Aiming for a neutral pleasantry, he asked, “You’re restoring the castle?”

“Castle’s done. We’re reinforcing the wall now. Lord Wilfred’s orders.”

“I see,” Oscar nodded. He could think of nothing else to say. Instead, he stood silently, while Gurth glared at him and his square, heavily stubbled jaw worked as though he was grinding his teeth.

Oscar found himself looking away, raising both hands in what he hoped was an appeasing gesture. “Perhaps I should go,” he said.

“You came to ask about him, didn’t you?” Gurth snapped, crossing his arms over his barrel of a chest.

“Have I done something to anger you?” Oscar asked, hands still raised.

“Not yet,” Gurth growled, “but you are very close. He told me I should answer your questions. What is it you want to know that you think you should be asking me rather than him?”

It was the way he said it that gave Oscar pause. Gurth thought that he was here seeking information about Wamba, behind the man’s back, and evidently did not approve. Oscar reminded himself that Wamba knew him disturbingly well, and had no doubt anticipated Oscar’s curiosity, enough to make arrangements to allow him to satisfy it this way. Suddenly, Nora’s remarkable willingness to entertain his questions made much more sense.

“I was just looking for him,” Oscar said defensively. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Gurth harrumphed, though his shoulders dropped, just a touch. “Well, you’re here now, and he’s not, so you might as well ask whatever you want to know. You’ll not get a second opportunity from me.”

Oscar looked at him silently for a while, weighing his options. Finally, he decided to seize his chance. “You’re the one who found him?”

“Yes,” Gurth said shortly.

“He was hurt?”

“Yes.”

Oscar wondered how many questions he would have to ask in this manner to learn anything of note. He sighed, resigned.

“I only want to know because I care about him, you know,” he said quietly, looking away. “I don’t want to use it to hurt him, or share it with anyone else. Just to know him better.”

For the first time, Gurth’s expression softened. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, looking Oscar over. Then he turned from Oscar, gazing at the castle, or perhaps beyond it, as he said, “You would hardly have recognized him, he was so frail. I thought he was dead, at first.”

“It was good of you to bring him here.”

Gurth scoffed. “I could hardly leave a child to die alone in the forest.”

“Someone else might not have been so kind. It was a lucky thing that you were the one to find him.”

“Yes,” Gurth said fiercely, “but the luck you speak of was mine.”

“What?” Oscar asked, startled by his vehemence.

“I did not welcome him. I had no thought but to return him to his master, at first, but the more time passed the more inconceivable it became to even think of it. He was meant to be here, and a finer friend I have never had. Then, after Torquilstone, he did something I can still scarcely believe. Our master offered him a boon, anything at all that he wished. He used it to ask for my freedom. Only mine.”

Gurth’s voice was rough with raw emotion, and Oscar felt his own throat growing tight in sympathy. He understood, very well, the kind of gratitude that Wamba could inspire. “He has done much the same for me,” he rasped.

“It does not surprise me,” Gurth said. He turned back to look at Oscar at last, blue eyes narrowing. “You might, if you indeed prove to be worthy of him.”

Oscar met his gaze squarely, equally serious. “It is my intention to be.”

Gurth snorted, and waved him away, his usual gruff manner firmly in place once more. “That’s enough chatter. I’m busy. You’ve already been to the kitchens?”

“Yes,” Oscar nodded.

“Try Lord Ivanhoe’s study, then.”

So Oscar was away again, traipsing after Wamba like a child following a trail of breadcrumbs. He passed through the main door of the keep and into the great hall, making his way toward the door that Gurth said would lead him to Ivanhoe and, he hoped, Wamba. Oscar was more than ready to see his face, to have him within reach, to begin to reconcile what he had learned with the man he knew.

His hand was hovering, poised to knock, when behind him a voice called out, “Wait a moment, lad.”


	19. Chapter 19

Oscar’s hand remained suspended aloft as he turned. It was a stately woman who addressed him, her somber gown of fine blue wool and her dark hair graying at the temples.

“I was looking for Ivanhoe,” he told her. One dark brow twitched in stern disapproval, and Oscar flushed and corrected himself. “Lord Wilfred.”

“I will take you to him,” the woman said, “but first my lady would speak with you.”

“Your lady?” Oscar squeaked, for there was only one lady here that he could recall, and thought of facing her alone was extraordinarily indimidating.

“Come,” the woman commanded him, turning to lead him into another corridor and up a flight of stairs. He followed, though his heart began to race and a nervous sweat broke out on his brow. The corridor at the top of the stairs was long and dotted with wooden doors, leading down to the double door that capped the far end.

His guide stopped before one of the smaller iron-bound doors, tapping twice before she opened it and led the way into the room. Wiping his hands hastily on the legs of his trousers, Oscar followed. His eyes stretched wide, to find himself in what was clearly a lady’s private chamber. The air was sweet with exotic perfumes, the bed draped with colored silks, and a small table with pots and bottles of all shapes and sizes stood before the largest mirror Oscar had ever seen, easily the size of a knight’s shield. At the table, on a velvet cushion, sat the Lady Rowena herself, as heart-stoppingly beautiful as she had been the evening before.

“I’ve brought him, my lady,” said Oscar’s guide, though the lady had clearly noticed him already, her gaze meeting his through the reflection in the mirror.

“Thank you, Elgitha,” she replied, the rounded syllables of her words as lovely to the ear as her face was to the eyes.

“My lady,” Oscar stammered, dropping a deep bow. He could not fathom why she would have called him here.

Rowena nodded graciously to his reflection. “Have a seat.”

Elgitha directed him toward a small, sloped bench beside the open door. Barely inside the room, it was a small impropriety, but Oscar doubted that in this place it would be even that. Rotherwood seemed to function according to a set of rules unique to itself.

Rowena was affixing some manner of jeweled adornment into her hair, her eyes on her own reflection. “You are very close to Wamba.”

It was not a question. Oscar fought the urge to twitch in his discomfort. Cautiously, he offered, “I have known him for some years, my lady.”

The evasion was not taken kindly. “Do you think,” Rowena asked sharply, “that after watching Cedric and Wamba love one another for years, I have by some magic remained ignorant of everything that meant?”

Oscar felt himself pale. “My lady, it was not my intention,” he began, but Rowena interrupted him.

“No, of course not,” she said. “How could you know?” She caught his gaze in the mirror, her gemlike blue eyes hard and assessing. “Do not misunderstand me. I have not brought you here to question your relationship. I merely wish to assure myself that you are capable of caring for Wamba as he deserves, as my husband believes.”

He remembered Nora’s searching look, Gurth’s suspicious glare. Even as he was studying the people of Rotherwood, they were measuring him, to decide whether he could be entrusted with their dear jester. “I will do all I can to be as good to him as Lord Cedric was,” he said at last.

Rowena shocked him with her bitter little laugh. She shook her head. “I forget that all you know of him is what Wamba has told you. I do not doubt that Wamba would never speak ill of Cedric, but the gentleness he describes was a thing of the lord’s later years.” Her graceful hands wove braids into the auburn tresses around her face, while Elgitha, silent, similarly decorated the long fall down her back. “Cedric was a tyrant for the majority of the days that I knew him, set in his ways and merciless toward those who defied him. Wamba suffered his wrath on many an occasion.”

There were times Oscar had suspected as much. He had never known for certain, before today.

“Shall I tell you a story?” Rowena asked.

Surprised, Oscar sat up straighter. “I would be honored, my lady.”

That won him a small smile. “Very well. When Wamba first came to Rotherwood, Cedric knew nothing of him. It was Wilfred who noticed him one day, cornered by some of the older servant boys, and bleeding. Wilfred chased them away, and told Oswald and his friends to leave the smaller child alone, but a few days later, he saw Wamba at table with his face covered in bruises.”

It was the second time Oscar had heard the name Oswald. He opened his mouth to ask, but Rowena did not give him a chance to speak. “After that, Wilfred decided to keep Wamba closer to him. He began to teach Wamba to read, and soon had another task for him. At that time, my husband and I were very much in love, but Cedric was against our love, and finally, seeing that he could not dissuade us with his shouting, he forbade us to see one another. Wamba became the secret messenger of our liaisons. He carried our letters and poems, and spent many an evening sitting just where you are, while I read Wilfred’s notes and composed my replies.”

Elgitha unfolded a long, gauzy shawl for the lady’s shoulders. Rowena stood, and Oscar rose also. “Cedric noticed him then, of course. Each time Wamba was discovered with a note, Cedric sent him to the gatehouse, and each punishment was harsher than the last, but he always came to apologize to Wilfred afterward, for his failure. It was we two who should have begged his forgiveness, for the pain our selfishness caused him.”

The story was over. Rowena looked him in the eyes, and said coolly, “Cedric did love him, Oscar. But it cost Wamba a great deal of suffering to earn that love. I hope that you will not ask the same.”

“It is not my intention, my lady,” Oscar said, with all the sincerity he could muster.

“Very well,” Rowena smiled. “Then Elgitha will show you where to find him. I will see you at supper.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Oscar said with another bow.

Elgitha ushered him out of the lady's chamber, and he moved to return to the hall, but she took his arm and turned him to face the opposite direction. She pointed to the large double doors at the end of the corridor. “He is in the lord’s chamber.”

“With Ivanhoe?” Oscar asked.

“No,” Elgitha corrected him. “Lord Wilfred has never used it. It is as it was when Lord Cedric died.”

Oscar’s chest constricted painfully, doubts sharp as knives piercing his heart. If Wamba had gone there to remember his master, it seemed horribly thoughtless to intrude. “Perhaps I should wait for him here,” he said hesitantly.

Elgitha shrugged one shoulder. “Do as you like.”

With this careless dismissal, she returned to her lady’s chamber and closed the door behind her. Alone now in the corridor, Oscar took several deep breaths, and steeled himself to approach the final barrier standing between him and Wamba. He stood before it for a long moment, looking at the blunt studs pounded into the wood, holding together the thick planks. He laid one hand against the door, aligning his fingers with the grain of the wood and trying to make up his mind.

In the end, it came down to his own selfishness, as it so often did. He wanted to see Wamba, as soon as possible, and so he braced himself and pushed. The door groaned as it swung inward, the room revealed to Oscar in a gradual sweep. The fireplace caught his eye first, enormous and empty, the hearth cold. Beside it, the hulk of a large table occupied much of the available space, though it was well clear of what sunlight had penetrated the narrow windows. The lengthening rays fell instead on the bed, massive and heavy.

And there, in the shadow of its ponderous form, he at last found what he sought. Wamba was seated on the floor, with his back to the solid bedpost. His eyes were distant, though the sound of the door opening must have disturbed his reverie, for he blinked away whatever vision had taken him and turned his head. When he saw Oscar, he smiled.

“Hello, Oscar.”

Oscar's heart leapt, profoundly happy to see him. After hearing so much about him, talking to the people who remembered him as he had been, it was a relief to find not the hurt boy or the jovial jester, but the somber, gentle man he knew waiting for him. Wamba was Rotherwood’s, but he was Oscar’s as well. Oscar ached suddenly with love for him, for his Wamba, who had taken everything the world had heaped upon him and defied it to become the champion he had never had, defender of those who had no power to defend themselves.

“Hello,” he said softly, closing the door and crossing to settle on the floor facing Wamba, both of them in the shadow of the bed now.

“It was not my intent to leave you on your own all day,” Wamba said, smiling despite the sadness that had fallen over him. “I hope it did not cause you too much trouble.”

“No,” Oscar reassured him with a gentle smile. “I’ve been talking to your friends.”

“Collecting all their humiliating stories about me?” Wamba teased.

“I’m not sure you have any,” Oscar admitted grudgingly. “Everyone here loves you.”

Wamba swallowed, looking away. “I don’t know about that.”

“Gurth told me how you won him his freedom.”

Wamba rested his head against the bed at his back, gazing at the wall high above. “I only suggested that our master give him what he very much deserved. Whatever small aid I may have been able to offer him, it can never be enough to repay his kindness in any measure.”

“I should not like to be in his debt. He’s rather terrifying,” Oscar said.

Wamba smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Gurth is my savior. He gave me the first bed I had ever known, and the first nights I could remember without fear. He taught me to speak again, and to take food, and how it feels to be clean. He never beat me, or forced me to pleasure him, and to him these things were natural, so much so that I can never thank him for them.” He looked down at his hands then, fingers playing at the edges of his sleeves. “His freedom meant so much more to me than anything I could have asked for myself. He is my dearest friend, and it is all I could ever desire that he think on me fondly, and not as a burden he never wished to bear.”

“I think you can be certain of that.” Oscar told him quietly. “You’ve changed so many lives here.”

“No one ever wanted me, Oscar, before this place,” Wamba said to his hands. “I was so scared, for so long, that they would tire of me and send me away. But they never did.”

Oscar did not know what it felt like to be so unloved. He had lost his parents early, but he had never doubted that they had loved him, never doubted the affection of his brother or the fact that Emmett would always forgive him in the end, no matter how dire the trouble he created. He could not imagine being a child and knowing without a doubt that you were unwanted.

“Why did you come to London?” he asked. “You could have stayed here.”

“The king wanted me to go, and Wilfred agreed.” Wamba laughed, hollow and forlorn. “At first, I did not realize I had a choice. I thought Wilfred was glad to be rid of me, the last sordid reminder of what his father had become.”

“Wamba,” Oscar breathed his name, overcome by the horror of what that rejection must have done to him on top of his grief for his master. Oscar remembered the sad, exhausted man he had met, and wondered how deep a heartache Wamba had successfully hidden from him, that so much would spill over.

Wamba gave him a frail smile. “I should have known better. Wilfred thought being here would be too hard for me, after my master was gone. He was likely correct.”

“How did he die?” Oscar had asked Wamba little of Cedric, afraid of overstepping, but they were here now, in the man’s own chamber, and there would be no better moment.

“It was his heart, I think,” Wamba said quietly. “We were on our way to York. He put his hand to his chest, and then he fell. It was fairly quick.” He mimicked the gesture, clutching at the tunic over his ribs.

Oscar reached out and took that hand between his own, studying the thin fingers, the silver ring that never left them. “Did you have a chance to say goodbye?”

“Yes,” Wamba said. His breath hitched, and Oscar looked up. He was stunned to find tears tracking their slow, meandering way down Wamba’s cheeks, and realized that he had never seen Wamba cry before.

Without thinking, Oscar stretched out his arms and clasped Wamba to him, wrapping him up in a gentle embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into Wamba’s hair.

It was true. For all his petty jealousy, Oscar could not resent Cedric, nor hate him for the hurts he had caused Wamba. Not when it was his doing also that Wamba had known love, had emerged whole from all his trials and found his way to London, where Oscar could find him.

Wamba laughed off his embarrassment, scrubbing at his cheeks to banish the tears. He smiled at Oscar as he raised his head. “I do wonder, sometimes, what he would have thought of you.”

Oscar snorted. "After he killed me for touching you, you mean?"

The laugh that won him was clear and genuine. “Yes,” Wamba said fondly, “after that.”

He pulled Oscar close with tender hands on his face, closing his eyes as he pressed their brows together and released a slow sigh.

“Are you ready to go?” Oscar asked him, close and soft.

Wamba opened his eyes, and smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I’m ready now.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Tell me again why you’re being sent to mediate a land dispute?”

Ivanhoe crossed his legs and steepled his fingers before him, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He looked at Wamba expectantly across the table that separated them. Meanwhile, Oscar busied himself emptying a satchel full of official writs and letters onto the wooden surface where Wamba could reach them if he needed them.

“Actually, I’m going to observe,” Wamba corrected Ivanhoe. “The mediating will be done by the local magistrate.”

“That’s the fellow you mentioned in your letter?” Ivanhoe asked.

“Yes,” Wamba nodded. “Lord Brix.”

“And what is it you’re hoping to learn from observing this Brix?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Wamba admitted. “His judgments, as they appear in the records, defy any understandable pattern. It is my hope that by watching how he resolves this dispute, I will be able to discern whose interests are being served by his justice.”

Ivanhoe frowned, tapping his chin with the tips of his forefingers. “You assume that one of the parties squabbling over the land happens to be the beneficiary you seek?”

“Not necessarily,” Wamba said, “but there are only so many noble families in Lancashire and Adeney makes up a significant portion of the land there. I imagine the likelihood that he would have no connection at all to at least one of those with a stake in its disposition to be most unlikely.”

“Lady Adeney?” Ivanhoe cocked his head, surprised. “I had no idea she had left us.”

Wamba nodded. “This past winter. Word arrived in January.”

“She had no son, if I remember correctly."

“Nor any daughters,” Wamba added. “All three of her children died in infancy, and Lord Adeney had no others. At least, none that he acknowledged.”

“So who is it that makes claim on her estate?”

“Oscar has made a particular study of the matter.” Wamba looked sidelong at Oscar, giving him a small smile. “Would you mind enlightening us?”

“Of course,” he said, and fished about briefly for the sheet that held his notes, though he had memorized most of the details, and began to speak even as his hand rustled through the dry leaves of parchment. “Lady Adeney had no heir, and Lord Adeney no living brothers or other immediate male relatives. One of his cousins has come forward, a man called Percival, though he is a cousin on Lord Adeney’s mother’s side, and the validity is questionable." He found his notes at last, and flipped them open on the tabletop. "In addition, Lady Adeney had a sister, Eleanor, who married a commoner named Bertram. He has made claim, as well a handful of others with even less credible cause to be at the table. ”

Oscar dropped his parchment to the table, soaking up Wamba’s approving smile with a rush of warmth. He had spent several long afternoons in the archive, extracting and copying out all the needed information, about the parties as well as the relevant laws, and was glad to put that knowledge to use now. He was eager to be of credit to Wamba, and hoped to have more opportunities to do so before the journey was over.

Ivanhoe’s brows rose. “That is no small knot to untangle.”

“Indeed,” Wamba agreed, looking back to the knight, “and of course the church has thrown its hand in as well. The Abbot of Whalley is their representative, I believe, hoping to dedicate those lands to the furthering of the holy mission.”

“Of course,” Ivanhoe said, with a small shake of his head. “I must confess, I do not envy you this duty.”

Wamba smiled. “As I said, my task is only to observe. Though on the off chance the talks are more eventful than anticipated, I would happily accept your offer of men to accompany us.”

“The meeting will take place in Blackburn?”

“Yes,” Wamba said. “There is a garrison there, and Farren has sent word, but I would be grateful to have men from Rotherwood. The soldiers at Blackburn are the same who have been enforcing Brix’s justice. There is no assurance that their loyalties have not shifted more toward him than the crown.”

“I found no fault with the men there last summer," Ivanhoe said, "but my visit was admittedly more concerned with their outfitting and training than testing their loyalties. You are wise to be cautious. It would do much to ease my own mind to know that you have a force of your own, men you and Farren can trust.”

He did not say it, but Oscar could tell it was Avery of whom he thought. Oscar had thought it as well, as they left London. Wamba had paid the price for a lack of caution on that last journey. Those who cared for him were not about to let it happen again.

“This is no small matter into which you have decided to insert yourself,” Ivanhoe noted. “I’ve half a mind to go with you myself.”

“If you think it necessary,” Wamba agreed easily, though Oscar could hear his consternation in the perfectly even tone of his voice. It matched Oscar’s own, at the implication that Wamba could not handle the matter himself, and needed his master there to oversee his work.

Ivanhoe looked at Wamba for a long moment, considering. “No,” he said at last, and smiled. “I have complete faith in you. You will do us proud, as you always have.”

It was Wamba’s turn to flush then, Ivanhoe’s coveted praise bringing a shy bloom of warmth to his cheeks even as he lowered his eyes. The knight glanced to Oscar instead, who smiled, grateful. While he was loath to admit it aloud, the knight had been correct. It was much easier to treat him as an ally than an enemy, if for no other reason than to spare Wamba the need to constantly place himself between them to calm their fractious tempers. Oscar still did not agree with Ivanhoe’s choice to keep Wamba a slave, but he set the irritation aside for a later time.

“Thank you, my lord," murmured Wamba.

Ivanhoe grimaced, and wagged an exasperated finger at Wamba. “One day," he said slowly, "I will find a way to break you of that stubborn habit.”

Oscar frowned at the mild threat, but Wamba was smiling again, untroubled, so he subsided and said nothing, congratulating himself on his restraint.

“When will you depart?” Ivanhoe asked.

“Tomorrow, if possible," Wamba told him. "Word was sent for all interested parties to gather at Blackburn when we left London. They should be waiting for us when we arrive.”

“Then I shall see to your guard at once. Farren will no doubt have his own thoughts on the best men as well.”

"How many..." Wamba trailed off, as there was a sudden sharp tapping of feet in the corridor outside, the only warning they had before the door burst open and a small figure flew in like a whirlwind.

“Father!”

The volume of the shout was all out of proportion to the stature of the body that produced it, and Oscar winced, while Ivanhoe pushed himself to his feet in time to catch the child who launched himself at his father.

“Hereward! Is it that time already?” Ivanhoe laughed, hoisting the child up into his arms with a wide grin. The boy had his mother’s auburn hair, but his smile was the perfect twin to Ivanhoe’s. 

Wamba stood as well. “Have we intruded on your time with your family?”

“Not to worry,” the knight assured him with a laugh, jostling his son in his arms. “I had planned to introduce you in any event, only the little ones are put to bed so early I hadn't had the chance.”

“I told him you were busy, my lord, but he refused to go to sleep without seeing you first,” a new voice joined the commotion. Oscar turned to find a pretty young woman in the doorway, her smile bright. A small girl with drooping eyes and a head of wheat blonde hair rested against her shoulder.

“Anna!” Wamba laughed, delighted. “I was wondering if I would see you before I left. Nora told me you were looking after the little lord and lady now.” He stepped forward, and hugged her with one arm, careful of her burden.

"You're being polite,” Anna chided. "I'm sure grandmother talked your ear off about my stubborn refusal to marry and have children of my own."

"If she did, I would certainly not risk her wrath by telling you so," Wamba chuckled.

"That's why you're her favorite," Anna smiled. "But where are my manners? This is Ardith,” she introduced the girl in her arms.

Ardith was too tired to care much for the visitors. She regarded Wamba with placid eyes and one tiny fist clutched in a tendril of Anna's chestnut hair as Wamba laid a careful hand on her back, his smile grown soft. “My lady,” he said quietly.

“And this,” Ivanhoe said, setting his son back on his feet, “is Hereward.”

Wamba turned to smile at the boy as well. He dropped to one knee on the flagstones, putting his eyes even with Hereward’s. “Hello, my lord,” he said, respectful. Oscar ached a little, to think that this small person might one day be Wamba’s master, and control his fate.

Hereward was still far too small to understand any of the complexities of such bonds. He watched the stranger before him warily, one hand clenched tight in his father’s trouser leg. Then Wamba lifted his hand and snapped his fingers in the space between them, and a ripe red strawberry appeared like magic between his fingers. Hereward gasped, his little eyes stretching wide in amazement. A delighted smile sprang to his face. Oscar glanced quickly back at the table, where the small bowl of berries beside the wine was indeed one emptier than before.

"For me!" Hereward took the strawberry eagerly when it was offered, stuffing it into his mouth leaves and all, and gave Wamba a brilliant, juice stained grin. He took Wamba’s hand in his sticky fingers and turned it over, though whether to discover the trick or to find more berries Oscar could not determine.

Ivanhoe laughed and patted his son’s head with an affectionate hand. “I should have known you would charm them within moments. I will have to teach him not to be so easily bought.”

Wamba stood, and smiled at the knight. “I am sorry I will not have more time to know them. They are very beautiful.”

Oscar silently agreed. Hereward and Ardith were the picture of happy childhood, vibrant with health and assured of their place, at the heart of an entire castle full of people who were committed to loving and protecting them. Hereward was still tugging Wamba’s hand this way and that, so Wamba plucked another berry from the bowl and offered it to the boy, gaze soft. Oscar had witnessed Wamba's particular way with children before, the tenderness they evoked, the way he delighted in showing them his little tricks. Oscar thought he understood that instinct better now, Wamba's urge to give others better than he had received manifested in his desire to gift a hint of wonder into their innocent lives.

Ivanhoe clapped him on the shoulder. “You should return here,” he said, “once your business in Blackburn is concluded. Spend the summer at Rotherwood.”

Thrown from his thoughts, Oscar felt the beginnings of a scowl threaten, a myriad of protests welling in his throat.

Ivanhoe noted it, and shot him a wink. "Oscar is welcome, too, of course."

Wamba blinked. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Ivanhoe said. “It might do you some good to forget your responsibilities for a time.”

“You have some task for me?” Wamba asked, puzzled.

Ivanhoe looked dangerously close to rolling his eyes. “One day, Wamba, I will speak and you will hear me. I wish for you to come home, for a while. How you choose to occupy that time is for you to decide.” He smirked. “Besides, if you only spend two days here after so many years gone, Nora is certain to slip poison into my food."

"She definitely will," Anna interjected, nodding vigorously.

"I did not survive all the hordes of Saladin to be done in by my own cook," Ivanhoe said. "Consider it a favor to me.”

Wamba laughed, and he looked so happy that Oscar found his own mind made up. “I suppose I cannot in good conscience leave you to such a fate when I can prevent it," Wamba said, "though I will need to ask permission of the king.”

“I’ll see to it,” Ivanhoe assured him. “You have more important things to worry about if you’re going to be off in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Wamba acceded with a nod.

“Good. Then I will go and see to your guard. Take anything you need in the way of provisions. Blackburn is a fair distance to cover in a single day.”

“The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can conclude our business.”

Ivanhoe scooped his son up in his arms once more, and smiled. “Rotherwood will be waiting for you when you return.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

They left Rotherwood early, while the sky was still brushed with peach hued dawn. Oscar was surprised to find a fair sized crowd in the shadow streaked bailey to see them off despite the earliness of the hour. Ivanhoe and Farren were occupied overseeing the final preparations of the five soldiers who would join their party, ensuring each man was outfitted properly with all that he needed for the journey. Nora was there as well, and immediately pulled Wamba aside to press a cloth-wrapped bundle into his hands. He had hardly taken it from her before she used her newly freed hands to tug him down into an enveloping hug. He was in his official regalia, the red tunic that Oscar admired, but even that finery could not stop him appearing a contented child in her motherly embrace. She said something into his ear that made him smile and nod against her shoulder.

Oscar left him to his farewells, however temporary they might be, and went to see to their horses instead. Both beasts were saddled already, a young squire holding the reins. Oscar quickly strapped their packs into place, noting Lockley’s two woodsmen loitering nearby as he did. They were both on foot, their longbows slung over the shoulders of the rough leather jerkins that were their only armor.

“Did you not want to take horses?” Oscar asked them, as he secured the last strap on his satchel of documents.

It was the taller of the two, a pale eyed man named Bern, who answered. “Don’t you worry about us, lad. We travel light, and a man can keep pace with a horse easily enough on gentle roads like those we travel today.”

“You can?” Oscar demanded, looking around for Wamba. He found him checking the girth on his saddle, and frowned at him, miffed. “You made me ride when I could have walked?”

Wamba’s eyes crinkled with his fond laugh. “Before you start getting in a temper with me, Oscar, I didn’t force you onto a horse for my own amusement. The men of the wood are well seasoned and accustomed to covering great distances in a single day. You would have collapsed by noon and we would have had to sling you over the neck of the horse or abandon you by the side of the road.”

“You can take my word for it. It’s better to sit atop the beast than hang across it like a sack of grain,” added Steven, the shorter and gruffer of the two woodsmen. “I learned that when I took an arrow to the arse and had to be carted to the surgeon on the back of the village mule. Nearly sicked myself with all the bumping.”

Oscar could not help his chuckle at the image. “I suppose I’m glad I learned, in that case,” he conceded.

“It’s a skill that will serve you well, I think,” Wamba said, stretching a leg up to his own stirrup and slinging himself into the saddle. Oscar quickly followed suit.

“You have everything you need?” Ivanhoe asked, appearing beside Wamba’s horse. He placed a hand on the younger man’s calfskin swathed knee, looking up at him. Oscar fumed a bit at the casual ownership in that gesture, but clamped his teeth tightly shut lest any comment escape.

“I believe so,” Wamba said, smiling down at Ivanhoe.

“Then God speed you on your way, and see you to a quick and peaceful conclusion of your business.”

“Thank you, Wilfred,” Wamba said, very quietly, as though afraid the impropriety might be overheard.

Ivanhoe grinned, wide and pleased. “A miracle! Surely no misfortune can befall you on such a blessed day as this.” He clapped his hand once more on Wamba’s knee, then stepped back and turned to bellow, “Open the gate!”

Farren took the lead, and the soldiers fell in to the front and rear as they filed through the gate. Wamba looked back, once, as the gate closed behind them and they were swallowed by the cool, damp closeness of the wood. Bern and Steven melted quickly into the trees once more, and Oscar was able to catch only occasional glimpses of them as they flitted across the path from time to time.

The company passed out of the forest late in the morning, emerging from the cool shade of the great oaks into the scouring brightness of the open countryside. Oscar had not fully appreciated the comfortable atmosphere of the wood until he was faced with the unrelenting glare of the sun once more. Bern and Steven descended from the trees to walk along beside them as promised, their whistling falling silent as they, too, began to feel the fatigue of exposure as midday came and went.

Thankfully, a cool breeze woke as the afternoon stretched on, and the soldiers became a touch more lively. The countryside north of the Greenwood seemed more expansive somehow, wide and empty with only the odd copse of round bodied trees to break the monotony. Oscar had traced the route they would travel on a map in the archives before they left London, and he knew just how far they had ventured, nearly to the westernmost edge of England.

"A shame we've no plans to go all the way to the sea," he remarked to Wamba.

"If it's a sea you desire, you might find the journey from London to be more convenient," Wamba replied with a smile.

Oscar shrugged. "I'm not bothered which side. It's only that I've never been."

"Nor have I, actually," Wamba said. "I only have Wilfred's stories, if they're to be believed."

"That settles it then," Oscar decided. "We must find an excuse."

Wamba laughed. "Alright. When shall we go?"

Blackburn appeared as a jagged shadow on the horizon late in the day, the points and peaks gradually resolving into the shapes of individual buildings as they drew close. Wamba nudged his horse to the front of the train to have a quick conversation with Farren, who turned to lead them into the town proper. It was hardly worthy to be called such, no more a score of wattle and daub houses clustered around the central square, but it did boast a garrison, a guildhall, and a small stone church with a pointed steeple. Oscar noted that more than one curious head poking through lighted windows to gawk at the unusual sight their party presented as they passed.

“We have been noted,” he told Wamba.

“Yes,” Wamba said. “Our arrival is quite conspicuous.” He nodded at a woman staring down from a garret window with open curiosity. She gasped and quickly slammed her shutter closed.

“Is that a problem?” Oscar asked.

“I should think not,” Wamba said. “Our purpose here is official, and it does no harm to make a show of force. Besides which, we are expected.”

The inn was a like many Oscar had seen, the first floor given over to a large common room with a roaring fire at one end, while the second story was sectioned into separate guest chambers. A towheaded youth appeared as they dismounted, and began to gather up their packs as soon as Oscar had pulled them down.

Oscar took one from his hands, just as he was about to add it to his already considerable load. “That’s alright friend,” Oscar said. “If you’re set on doing my job for me, the least I can do is assist.”

The boy merely grunted, and turned to shuffle inside. Oscar followed, and he wondered if it was a trick of the way the boy was carrying the packs that made his back seem oddly hunched, the line of his spine twisted to one side. He followed the taciturn stranger up the stairs and into a comfortably appointed room. It boasted a small fireplace and a solid dining table with four chairs.

“This will do nicely,” Oscar said conversationally, hoping to draw the boy out. “Do you get many important visitors here?”

The boy did not look up. He dropped the packs he carried, and scuttled back out the door without comment. Oscar watched him leave, bemused, Then he shrugged, and wondered if perhaps the people this far north were simply less inclined to be welcoming toward strangers. He opened his own pack and began to sort the rest into their proper places. The fire was lit, and the room somewhat stifling, so he threw open the wide window beside the bed. It looked out on a view of the square, the moon just rising beyond the guildhall. He admired the sight for a moment, until his stomach reminded him that he was famished after a day on horseback, and he returned to the common room to find Wamba.

Farren and the soldiers had filled the tables closest to the fire, taking bowls from a laughing maid balancing an enormous tray. He spied Wamba at the far end, close to Farren, and went to sit beside him. “Are the woodsmen not joining us?” he asked as he climbed over the bench and slid his legs under the table, jostling against Wamba’s in the crowded space.

“No,” Wamba said, “they prefer to find their own comforts. I’m sure they will stay close.” He passed Oscar a bowl and mug, which he accepted gratefully.

“Will the soldiers be here?” he asked, as he scooped up a heaping spoonful of hearty pottage.

“Yes, though some will have to bunk in the stables.”

“That is good,” Oscar decided. It would hardly make sense to bring such a force as guard and then station them in the garrison where they were out of easy reach.

They shared a companionable meal with the soldiers. He scraped his bowl clean, mopping up the last of the gravy with a heel of bread, and Oscar was pleased to see that Wamba had eaten nearly his entire portion as well. He hoped that this appetite would hold into the following day, and went to make arrangements for breakfast while Wamba went up ahead of him to their room.

“Hello?” he called as he stepped into the low heat of the kitchens. They were deserted, but for the hunched form of the same boy who had carried Oscar’s packs earlier, scrubbing at a large iron pot. “Oh,” he said as he saw the boy. “Hello. Is there someone here who can tell me about breakfast?”

The boy startled, glaring at Oscar suspiciously, but said nothing. He quickly stood, abandoning his chore to shove past Oscar and out the door. He nearly collided with another person there, who skipped back to avoid him. It was the maid who had served their supper, younger than Oscar, with hair and eyes both of a rich brown.

“Don’t mind Morris,” she said, giving Oscar an apologetic smile. “He doesn’t much care for people these days.”

“What happened to him?” Oscar asked.

“Got himself into trouble and got a flogging for it,” the girl said, her smile dimming.

“A flogging did that to his back?” Oscar asked skeptically.

“That and the stocks after. Spent too long bent over, the surgeon said, and never had a chance to heal proper.”

Oscar frowned, wondering for a long moment why the tale sounded so familiar to him. Then he remembered, in a rush, the very first story Wamba had told him of Lord Brix. The boy who had been punished for misdirecting travelers, flogged and pilloried. He felt his mouth fall open.

“I’m Rose, by the way,” the girl in front of him said, startling him from his shock.

“Oh! Right,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m Oscar.” He offered her his hand, and she took it, her work roughened palm touching his own.

“Welcome to Blackburn, Oscar," she said with a renewed smile. "You came with the magistrate?”

“Yes,” he said. “I was hoping to ask about his breakfast.”

“Usually porridge, and sometimes eggs. We can send a tray up for him, if you like.”

“It would be better if I could fetch it, actually,” he said, hoping to preempt any unannounced visits.

Rose shrugged. “As you like. Easier for me if you do anyhow.”

“Thanks, Rose.” He winked at her, and gave a little wave as he left to make his way upstairs.

The corridor was deserted, the inn settling for the night. Wamba was sorting through the sheaf of documents Oscar had copied from the archives, spread out across the surface of the table. He looked up when Oscar entered, a small welcoming smile on his face. “Your mission was a success?”

“This is the inn,” Oscar said, ignoring the question. “Morris is the boy who was misdirecting travelers and got a flogging for it.”

Wamba’s smile blossomed at once into a broad grin. “That was remarkably fast,” he said warmly. “Well done.”

Oscar leaned back against the closed door. “You brought us here on purpose,” he realized.

“Well,” Wamba said wryly, “it does help that it’s the only serviceable inn in Blackburn. But I believe there is some connection here to whatever Lord Brix is scheming, and we may as well make use of every source of information available to us.”

“That's very clever,” Oscar told him. He pushed off the door, closing the distance between them.

“Thank you.” Wamba smiled and turned to face him fully. “Though I am depending on you to see it through.”

That gave Oscar pause. “What do you mean?”

“You have a particular charm that is difficult to resist. With your skill for making friends, I'm sure you'll get to the heart of this matter in no time at all.”

Oscar grinned, inordinately pleased by this declaration. “Is that why you brought me?” he chuckled. “Because I can move around downstairs?”

“That,” Wamba agreed, lips curled in a teasing smile, “and, perhaps, one other reason.”

“Oh, yes?” Oscar asked, laying his hands on Wamba’s hips and crowding close to feel the warmth of him through their clothes. “And what reason might that be?”

Wamba chuckled as their bodies brushed. “You make a remarkably effective bed warmer.”

“I should hate to disappoint on that count,” Oscar said, letting his voice drop to a low murmur. He nuzzled at the stretch of Wamba’s neck between his ear and his collar. “Shall I give you a demonstration of my talents?”

Wamba made a thoughtful noise, as though considering the offer. Oscar pulled away to look at him, meeting laughing eyes and a sweet smile, even as a flush began to spread down Wamba’s cheeks to his throat. So Oscar abandoned the tease and bent his head to catch his lover’s lips in a gentle kiss.

He pushed forward until Wamba was trapped between his body and the table, his thumbs brushing over soft wool where it covered the peaks of sharp hipbones. Wamba laced his arms through Oscar’s and clasped his hands at the small of Oscar’s back, pulling him in close. He licked teasingly at Oscar’s lips, drawing him out and into Wamba’s mouth. Oscar following that beckoning tongue to take control of the kiss, gentle motions growing more demanding as his body came alive.

His hand wandered from Wamba’s hip to worm inside the slit of his tunic, cupping the hot line of his cock in a firm grip and winning a soft moan before he set about teasing the laces of Wamba's trousers apart. Wamba broke the kiss to help him, quickly undoing his own belt and rucking up his tunic, preparing to pull it over his head.

Oscar caught his wrist. “No," he growled. "Leave it on.”

Wamba’s brows rose, his smile turning amused, but he let the red wool fall back to cover him. “I fear I will never understand this odd fascination of yours.”

Oscar grinned at him, working his hand inside Wamba’s trousers at last to rub the velvety skin of him against his palm in a slow caress. “I think I showed remarkable restraint this morning,” he said, watching Wamba’s eyes flutter shut and his head fall back. “Let me have my reward.”

“As you wish.” Wamba laughed again, though it ended on a gasp when Oscar bent him back over the table. The parchment there crackled beneath them, but Oscar paid it no mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic consensual m/m sex.


	22. Chapter 22

Blackburn was no more impressive by daylight. The drab wattle and daub houses were damp with a coating of light rain, which spat down on them from the slate gray sky as they traversed the bare expanse of the main square. The walk was short, though somewhat treacherous, and Oscar spent his time dodging the maze of muddy puddles that dotted the wet earth, sucking at the heels of his boots each time he lifted a foot. He grit his teeth and trailed after Farren and Wamba to the guildhall, the chilly drizzle dewing on his clothing and the leather of the satchel dangling from his shoulder.

The guildhall itself was an unassuming building of dull gray stone, long and squat with a pair of scarred double doors that displayed clear signs of rot about the hinges and the cracked base. These opened to Farren’s hand with a resentful groan. Oscar stopped to scrape his boots on the stone marking the threshold, endeavoring to rid himself of the worst of the caked mud, though, he thought ruefully, he would need to see to salvaging Wamba’s boots as well as his own once they returned to the inn.

He signed, resigned, and gave the stone one last halfhearted kick before he looked up. He froze. There in the hall were dozens of people, far more than had put forward any sort of claim, and all of them staring at the strangers in open curiosity. After a moment of stunned silence, Wamba cleared his throat, and stepped forward, allowing Oscar follow after him, though he could hardly hope to hide behind Wamba’s slighter form.

The hall was at least as wide as it was long, with narrow windows lining either side. The crowd was a motley one, from the clearly noble, in rich doublets with feathers standing proud in their round caps, to peasants in rough linen tunics and soot stained boots. Oscar had no idea where to even begin to find his bearings in such a throng, but Wamba moved confidently, clearly knowing how to handle himself. They had hardly gone a dozen paces before a man with a sacklike cap of red velvet appeared in their path. He might have been handsome, but for the ridiculously bushy goatee that shrouded his mouth and chin. The shoulders of his doublet were comically wide, spreading like stiff buttresses to either side of his arms.

“This must be the magistrate then, all the way from London,” he intoned, granting Wamba an oily smile. Oscar’s lip twitched in the beginnings of a grimace, but he quickly brought it under control.

“That is indeed who I am,” Wamba said, his voice cool and polite, “and who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am Brix,” the man introduced himself with a minute bow, “I serve his majesty’s interests here as his agent.”

“Of course. Lord Brix. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Wamba returned the bow. “I regret that we did not have an opportunity to meet before this council. We arrived quite late, and I was disinclined to disturb your evening rest.”

“My men informed me of your safe arrival,” Brix said cordially, though his eyes were alert and intent on Wamba, assessing him. “I was pleased to hear it, though I do not see how it could have been otherwise, as from the sound of it you have brought a small army with you.”

“Hardly,” Wamba waved diffidently. “My men are merely here as a precaution. Despite his majesty’s efforts to ensure the safety of our highways, there are always dangers on the road, and I find an overabundance of prudence preferable to robbery at knifepoint.”

“Of course,” Brix’s understanding nod was as false as his concern. “Tell me, how did you find the journey? Not too tiring, I hope?”

Wearying quickly of the dance of pleasantries, Oscar looked around the room, glancing from person to person, until his eyes came to rest on a more familiar figure. Wamba and Brix were still chatting about nothing, so Oscar broke away to wander over to the heavily laden tables lining the side of the hall.

“Rose!" he called. "If you’d told me there would be breakfast here, I wouldn’t have bothered you about the tray.”

Rose looked up from pouring out ale into a mismatched collection of mugs. She smiled when she saw him. “Nothing wrong with a bit of extra breakfast, is there? Particularly when it's not your coin paying for it.”

“This is quite a feast,” Oscar noted, taking in the hearty spread of cured meats and cheeses with nuts and dried fruit and dark bread. “Do you do this for all the council meetings?”

“Only when his holiness is invited.” She nodded to the far corner of the room, and Oscar followed her gaze to where a curious figure stood. His robe was long and plain, the brown of the order of monks that he represented, but he wore a fine stole over it, embellished with gold and silver thread, and his collar was of thick fur. Though his face was round and unlined, he was bald but for a thin circle of brown hair wrapping around his head in a horseshoe.

“That’s the Abbot of Whalley?" Oscar asked Rose.

“That’s him,” she said. “He’s a particular favorite of Fuller’s. Always about draining the ale casks.”

“Fuller?” Oscar echoed, puzzled.

“He owns the inn. Does whatever it takes to keep his holiness there happy.”

Oscar hummed, considering this new bit of information and wondering how it fit into the whole picture Wamba was hoping to piece together. Then he shrugged, and turned back to Rose. He snatched a slice of ham from the nearest platter, rolling it into a tight spiral before he took a bite. He waved his food at the milling crowd in the hall as he remarked, “I hadn’t expected so many people. I can't see how they’re going to manage any kind of discussion like this.”

“That’s what the council chamber is for,” Rose told him. She pointed to a small wooden door tucked against the wall opposite the main entrance.

“All these people can fit in there?”

“Don’t need to, do they?” Rose shrugged. “Most are only here for the breakfast. They’ll clear out as soon as the council starts.”

“That explains quite a lot,” Oscar admitted. It certainly resolved his confusion about why so many people with clearly so little reason to have any stake in the estate of a deceased noblewomen were mixed in with the claimants. Opportunistic townspeople in search of a free breakfast were something he understood readily enough. “Do you suppose I could… whoa!”

Oscar stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table as a heavy weight rammed into his calves from behind, forcing his legs to fold. One knee just touched the ground before he was able to steady himself and turn. The culprit was a heavy wooden barrel, pushed along by the silent Morris.

“Careful, Morris!” Rose scolded him. “I told you to watch where you’re going!”

“That’s alright,” Oscar assured her, brushing off his knee. “No harm done.”

“He’s going to get himself into trouble again if he keeps on like this,” Rose hissed, her irritation clearly more concern than true anger.

Morris had not looked up, standing frozen with the barrel held still under his hands. Oscar’s heart softened in a moment of true sympathy for the hapless boy, who had clearly been the target of undeserved chastisement on more occasions than one.

“Here,” he said kindly, “let me help you with that.” He swung his satchel so that it dangled down his back and bent to grasp the edges of the barrel. Together, he and Morris heaved it up to sit on one flat end, scuffing it around so the cork faced the tables. “Alright?”

Rose was smiling at him again, her eyes shining with something that might have been admiration. Morris, too, darted a single glance up at him from between the strands of his white blonde hair, though he quickly looked away when Oscar grinned at him. He nodded.

“Is that the last one?” Oscar asked, and received another nod. “I’d best get back to my own duties, then. I’ll see you both later.”

Rose waved as he walked away, snatching one of the pitted mugs Rose had poured on his way. He searched the hall for Wamba, and finally found him engaged in small talk with a tall woman in an ivory gown, Farren hovering a few feet away. He crossed the room to press the mug discreetly into Wamba’s hand, catching his eye for just a moment as he nodded in the direction of the small door Rose had pointed out. Wamba tilted his head in subtle acknowledgement, and quickly resumed his conversation.

Oscar, meanwhile, made his way into the council chamber, which was nearly identical to the hall in size and shape, though it was occupied by a collection of long tables, formed into a rough square with chairs clustered tight to the edges. There was no dais, but the chairs at the far end were heavier and more ornate than the rest, so Oscar went to examine them more closely, wondering which he might claim for Wamba.

A pile of parchment had been placed before the tallest chair, at the center of the head table, the only indication that any of the seats was spoken for. Curiously, Oscar pulled the documents closer, scanning over the ornate script on the first sheet. His eyes widened as he realized it was none other than the family records of Lady Adeney. He shuffled that page aside, revealing the official records of the estate, every castle, coin and beast accounted for in a neat tally of assets. Fascinated, Oscar ran his finger down the page, tapping across familiar names.

He was still reading through it, trying to compare it with his memory of the official records in London that he had copied out, when a voice snapped in the quiet, “What are you doing, boy?”

Oscar jumped, snatching his hand back guiltily. It was the Abbot of Whalley who had spoken, his eyes narrowed suspiciously at Oscar from his place in the doorway.

“You should not be in here alone,” the abbot scolded him, "and you certainly should not be playing about with those documents. You have no idea how important they are. You might have damaged them.”

“I was just reviewing the estate records,” Oscar said defensively, stung by the assumption of his ignorance.

That gave the abbot pause. His brow rose as he stared at Oscar. “You can read?” he asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” Oscar scowled, appalled to feel a flush rising in his cheeks.

Curious now, the abbot approached. “Are you a failed postulant?”

“I’m a servant in the royal household,” Oscar said sharply, “and quite a success at it, actually.”

"I see." The abbot sniffed, the curiosity fading to disdain. "Amazing who they’ll teach to read these days,” he said dismissively.

Oscar opened his mouth, fully intending to let this presumptuous monk know exactly what he thought of his arrogance, when a familiar voice interjected pleasantly, “Knowledge is a gift we should share with as many as have appetite for it, to my thinking.”

Relief flooded through Oscar, along with a familiar amusement at the cheerful audacity of the pronouncement. He grinned at Wamba over the abbot’s shoulder as the unpleasant man turned, frowning at the newcomer.

“And who might you be?” he demanded.

“I am Cedric,” Wamba introduced himself, “present here by command of his majesty the king to observe these proceedings.”

“Ah, yes,” the abbot said, his voice abruptly taking on a note of obsequiousness that made Oscar bite down on a snort. “I had heard we would be having an honored guest from London. How have you found Blackwell?”

“So far, I have no complaints for the hospitality,” Wamba said.

“Excellent, excellent,” the abbot said, rubbing his hands together. “I have instructed Fuller that you are to have every comfort.”

“Most generous,” Wamba nodded graciously.

“It looks like you’ll have your choice of seats,” Oscar interrupted them quickly, before Wamba could become entangled in yet another meaningless exchange of pleasantries.

The abbot smiled. “Why, I would be honored if you would take the chair beside mine.”

“It would be a pleasure,” Wamba said, glancing sideling at Oscar, who was trying very hard not to smirk. “Will we be delayed much longer?”

No sooner had he spoken than Brix appeared in the door, at the head of a long procession of men and women, who filed into the chamber with food and drink still in hand, quickly filling the available spaces around the table. The abbot took his seat, to the right of the chair reserved for Brix, and Wamba took the one next to him when it was offered. Oscar handed him his quill and ink, as well as a blank sheet of parchment, then took up a post behind him, resigning himself to a stiff back by the end of the day.

“Is that everyone?” Brix asked of the hall. There was a moment of general swiveling of heads, as the assembled took stock of their neighbors. No one spoke.

“Very well,” Brix declared. “Then let us begin.”


	23. Chapter 23

The morning descended quickly into chaos. As Oscar had predicted, even with the opportunistic townspeople removed from the throng, there were still far too many people in the room to keep any sort of order.

“We are here to resolve the inheritance of the departed Lady Adeney,” Brix began once the hall had fallen silent at last, his voice heavy with forced solemnity, “who was taken from us this winter past by the Lord God in his wisdom, and who left behind her no known heir of her body. As her estate was of some consequence, and the lady herself possessed of a great number of close friends and distant kin, this is a decision that cannot be taken lightly.”

He glanced around the hall at the gathered men and women, all of whom, Oscar noted, were leaning forward eagerly over the table, eager to speak and put forth their tenuous claims.

“Before we begin, however,” Brix continued, and Oscar thought he detected a faint spark of amusement in the man’s voice as the hall rippled with an impatient grumble, “this matter has been deemed of sufficient consequence to warrant a visit from an esteemed emissary of King Richard himself. We give welcome to Cedric, dispatched here to our humble town to bestow upon us his wisdom and guidance.”

Brix waved at Wamba, and all eyes turned to the young magistrate. Oscar resisted the urge to squirm, standing as he was just behind him. He focused instead on Wamba’s shoulders, which stiffened minutely, even as he nodded graciously to the silent room. “As I said, Lord Brix, my function here is merely to observe. There is no need to involve me unduly in the affairs that I am sure you are more than capable of overseeing without my interference.”

It was precisely this sort of declaration Brix had been hoping to elicit, judging by his satisfied smile. “Then let us proceed. All those with claim to the estate of Adeney are invited to present their arguments. All will be considered. Lord Isembert, would you care to start?”

A pimply young man rose from his chair. “My mother was Lady Adeney’s closest friend and confidant,” he began.

“Sit down, Isembert!” came a shout from the other side of the room. “Your mother was a godless strumpet and Lady Adeney wanted nothing to do with her.” An ancient woman pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, leaning heavily on the table for support. “I was her companion before your mother even knew her name.”

“A lady’s maid cannot inherit a noble estate,” sneered a rangy older man in a fine blue doublet. “I insist that crone be dismissed at once.”

They continued on this way, as Oscar’s incredulity plummeted to profound new depths. No sooner had one person begun to speak than another was talking over him, voices rising in a raucous escalation like the bickering crows that haunted the king's tower.

“Good people,” Brix called at last over the fray, “please, let us conduct ourselves in an appropriately respectful manner. Surely the departed lady herself would frown on such discourteousness. Lord Edmund, please continue.”

Edmund was no more civil than any of his neighbors, and soon the room was in turmoil once more. Oscar found himself growing quickly weary of the clamor, unable to keep track of who had what connection to whom and longing for the methodical order of Wamba’s tribunal. Wamba himself was equally astonished, his quill hovering uncertainly over his parchment, a set of scrawled notes abandoned mid-word as he no doubt realized the impossibility of making any sense of the pandemonium. Brix occasionally called for silence, with an air of parental indulgence that Oscar found particularly grating, only to allow the argument to escalate once more. In the meantime, he chatted amicably with the abbot at his side, letting the combatants exhaust themselves.

By the time Brix announced a recess, it was noon, and Oscar was unspeakably grateful when Wamba excused them both to leave behind the atmosphere of simmering resentment that pervaded the hall like noxious fumes. He followed Wamba out into the square. Farren waited there, along with one of the soldiers from Rotherwood whose name Oscar had forgotten.

“Any problem?” the towering man rumbled. His mail was speckled with drops of moisture, slowly drying now that the rain had finally passed.

Wamba took a deep breath, and expelled a profound sigh into the damp air. “None,” he replied, “except that they have spent half the day in arguing and accomplished nothing but to make my head ache abominably.”

“Should I fetch your medicine?” Oscar asked at once, looking him over more closely for signs of discomfort.

Wamba’s mouth quirked in a faint smile. “No. It’s nothing that serious.”

“Are you certain? The inn is just there,” he insisted.

“I’m alright,” Wamba assured him again. “There’s no cause to fret, Oscar.”

“Will you eat?”

Wamba chuckled at that, his mood lifting with the familiar argument and taking Oscar’s along with it. “Do I have a choice, with you here to scold me?”

“Not likely,” Oscar told him with a bit of a helpless smile.

Without warning, an enormous dark shadow dropped suddenly to the ground at Oscar's side with a prodigious thump. He startled, leaping to the side, and immediately lost his footing, his boots sliding in the sludge of mud that slicked the ground. He toppled over onto his rump with a surprised shout.

“What was that for?” he demanded, glaring up into the stoic face of Bern the woodsman, who stood regarding him dispassionately from Wamba’s side. “And where did you come from? Did you drop from the roof?”

“You’re jumpy, lad,” Bern said. “The guildhall offers the highest ground in the town, other than the inn.” He nodded across the square to the building in question, where Oscar realized, to his bafflement, that Steven had taken up a post between two eaves, with his bow slung across his knees.

“So you’re lurking on the rooftops? Was your father a bat?” Oscar pulled his hands free of the mud, which squelched unpleasantly between his fingers, and levered himself to his feet. Wamba took his elbow to help him, clearly biting his lip to stifle a laugh. Oscar glared at him for good measure, and wiped his hands on his trousers, which were already a lost cause.

“Never underestimate the importance of a high vantage,” Bern said. “It is because of that post, for example, that I can tell you that there are to be a goodly few more soldiers in town very shortly.”

“What?” said Farren, his gaze sharpening. “How many?”

“A dozen, by my count, and wearing the king’s livery. I’ll wager they’re from the garrison.”

“Lord Brix must have sent for them,” Wamba said. “Or do you think it’s possible they’re a regular patrol?”

“Blackburn garrison or not, I am still a captain to them,” Farren said. “They will answer to me.”

“Then I will leave you to investigate,” Wamba said. “If you think them a threat, we will do as you decide.”

“It would be a remarkable feat to have made enemies of them so quickly,” Bern noted.

“It is my hope they are not enemies at all,” Wamba said as he turned, “but Lord Brix may have taken our minor show of force as a challenge. Let us hope their errand is an innocent one.”

Oscar followed him back into the hall, a new worry gnawing at the edges of his attention. Rose had returned, bearing fresh food with her, so he went to claim a share. She laughed when she saw Oscar covered in mud, and took pity on him enough to let him borrow a cloth to brush off the worst of the mess. He washed his hands in a bucket of fresh water and filled a plate for Wamba, piling it with far more than he knew the man could eat, planning to sneak his own meal after Wamba was finished with it.

He returned to the council chamber just in time to witness Brix lean across the abbot beside him to remark to Wamba, “I am eager to hear what you thought of the morning.”

“Most lively, my lord,” Wamba responded wryly. He nodded to Oscar in thanks for the plate which was dropped in front of him.

“Not what you’re accustomed to?” the abbot asked innocently.

“I must say I have rarely witnessed such an abundance of competing interests in London’s tribunal.”

Brix waved a hand, sitting back to tear into his meal. Bits of roast fowl caught in his yellow whiskers, making Oscar grimace. “These peasants just want to quarrel with one another. Any excuse will do. They’ll tire of it eventually and wander home. Those that remain will be those worth humoring.”

“And how long do you anticipate that will take, my lord?” Wamba asked.

“A week,” Brix shrugged. “Perhaps two. The estate is quite large, after all.”

“If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion,” Wamba said, his tone carefully deferential, “there may be another way to dispel with question in a more timely manner.”

“And miss all the fun?” the abbot chuckled.

“Now, now,” Brix said affably. “He must be very wise, to hold such an important post at such a young age. Do tell us, Cedric, what solution would you propose to our little dilemma?”

Wamba knew he was being patronized, Oscar was sure of it, but he did not let it show. Instead, he answered calmly, “Let those who have the least claims be called first. Give each his hearing, then dismiss those that have no basis in the laws governing inheritance. You can narrow the pool considerably in a very short time.”

“What a perfectly revolutionary idea,” Brix said, all false amazement.

“Anything I can do to be of assistance, my lord,” Wamba said.

“I shall try this at once,” Brix declared.

He was as good as his word. As soon as he had finished his own meal, he announced the new instructions to the hall. There was a rustle of general confusion, but perhaps their full bellies had made them lethargic or the morning excitement had taken its toll, for they remained obediently silent while, one by one, Brix called them forward.

Lady Adeney’s ancient maid was first, insisting once again that a lifetime of service entitled her to a share of the estate.

“Regretfully, madam, friendship holds no sway over the law,” Brix told her.

“Am I to have nothing?” she choked, her composure slipping. Tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. “What’s to become of me? I’ve no children. Where am I to go?”

Oscar’s throat tightened at the piteous picture she made, and he found himself suddenly hoping against reason that Brix would see his way to find some mercy for her. There was none to be had.

“Enough of that, woman,” Brix snapped. “Step aside and let the next claimant come forward.”

“The church will welcome you, as all God’s children are welcome to His service,” the abbot interjected apathetically, and watched as she turned and hobbled from the room, still weeping.

So they continued, the claims rejected one after another. The pimply young Isembert made an impassioned argument that the Lady Adeney had made his mother a promise of a share of her wealth.

“Do you have some proof of this promise?” Brix asked. “Some document bearing the lady’s mark?”

“None,” Isembert was forced to admit, and summarily dismissed.

Brix was remarkably efficient and decisive once he set himself to his task, and Oscar began to suspect that the morning had been as much a ruse as the false pleasantries, to draw Wamba out and test his character. There were too many pieces moving, too many uncertainties, feeding the anxious flame of urgency in Oscar’s gut, and he longed to talk to Wamba and hear his thoughts.

The council itself held little mystery. Oscar already knew who would remain standing once the dust settled. By the time the light had begun to fade, the crowd had been winnowed down to precisely the three individuals Oscar had expected. Lord Adeney’s cousin Percival, Lady Adeney’s sister and her husband, as well as the Abbot of Whalley were invited to return the following day, and finally they were done.

Oscar stepped forward from his place, wincing at the stiffness in his spine after standing in one position for the majority of the day, and began to gather Wamba’s parchment and quill.

The abbot turned to Wamba as the room emptied. “Cedric,” he said, “my compliments. Your system was quite remarkably efficient.”

“Most kind of you to say, Father Abbot,” Wamba said, pushing his chair back and standing.

“Have you plans for the evening meal?” the abbot asked as he, too, rose to his feet.

Wamba’s brow jumped. “None to speak of.”

“Then you must dine with me,” the abbot said. “I will find you at the inn.”

With that abrupt declaration, he departed, taking Brix with him. Oscar and Wamba stood and watched them go.

“What does he want?” Oscar wondered aloud.

Wamba looked at him, and shrugged. “We shall have to wait and see.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

Farren met them at the door, as grim as Oscar had ever seen him.

“Unwelcome news?” Wamba asked him quietly.

“Only that we have cause to be on our guard,” Farren rumbled, even as he ushered Wamba forward, one massive arm sheltering his charge as he cast a forbidding glare toward his other side. Following his gaze, Oscar saw a pair of liveried soldiers, in the king’s red. They both wore simple steel helms and carried long pikes, standing guard beside a door. It appeared to be the main entrance of a large house that sat adjacent to the guildhall.

“Whose house is that?” Oscar asked, stretching his legs to keep pace with Farren’s determined stride.

“Lord Brix resides there when he is in Blackburn,” Farren said tersely.

“Impressive,” Oscar noted.

“Quite a bit more impressive than his estate would suggest,” Wamba said. He turned to Farren. “Did they tell you what their orders were?”

“They would tell me nothing but that they have been tasked with keeping the peace until the council is concluded. I challenged them to name the danger they feared. They told me they answer to none but Lord Brix.”

Oscar frowned. “That’s the king’s uniform!”

“It means little,” Farren told him. “Even Lord Wilfred’s name was not enough to sway them. They are loyal to Lord Brix, and likely chosen for this duty because of it.”

“He is a suspicious man,” Wamba said. “He has been testing me since we met, to determine whether I am a threat.” He tilted his head toward the soldiers. “This is our answer. Whatever it is he has done here, he does not want it discovered.”

“I would prefer that more of my men were in the inn rather than the stables,” Farren said, “but we will make do. Do not venture out without me.”

Wamba smiled, despite the misgivings they all shared. “Fear not," he said. "I’m well accustomed to that particular precaution.”

Farren kept one eye on the soldiers until they entered the inn, where Rose waited to meet them. “The Father Abbot invites you to join him in the rear chamber in one hour for supper.”

“Of course,” Wamba favored her with his kind smile. “I think we should appreciate a few minutes to make ourselves presentable.”

The comment was for Oscar’s benefit, as he was the only one of them still covered in mud, but he let Wamba go ahead of him up the stairs to follow Rose behind the bar instead.

“Do you do everything here?” he asked her, ducking through the low door into the heat of the kitchens. A few old cooks looked him over curiously, but returned quickly enough to their pots. A whole hog was roasting on a spit over the fire, turned slowly by Morris. The boy looked up at Oscar, and for a moment it seemed he might have smiled.

“Most of the girls don’t stay with Fuller long,” Rose said, “and those that do find all manner of reasons to be absent when his holiness is about.” She leaned close to him to confide quietly, “He’s got an extra pair of hands on him, that one.”

“The abbot?” Oscar goggled. The pompous little man did not seem the type to make a pastime of wenching, but Oscar supposed drink could waken any number of dark impulses, even in a man of the cloth. It only fed his disdain for the abbot, to know that he would preach the vows of his order publicly, while making lewd and unwelcome advances behind closed doors.

“No need to worry for your virtue,” Rose chuckled. “He’s only for the girls.”

Oscar coughed, reddening. He had no idea how to respond to that, so instead he asked Rose for wine and carried it up to Wamba, who had removed his boots and was brushing the dried mud from them out the window.

“I’ll do that,” Oscar told him, as he added a pinch of powder to banish Wamba’s headache to the wine. He traded the boots and brush for the cup, and finished cleaning the stiff leather with quick, efficient strokes of the horsehair bristles.

“How goes your infiltration of the kitchens?” Wamba asked him, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside the window as he drank his wine and watched Oscar work.

“Rose is very friendly,” Oscar told him, “and Morris seems like a good lad, though I’ve yet to hear him speak a word. I can’t say I’ve learned anything especially useful, though, unless you believe the fact that the abbot has a liking for tavern wenches and an inability to accept refusal is of some significance.”

“It might be.” Wamba looked away, toward the fire, frowning in thought. “He must have some hold over the innkeeper, to warrant such lavish generosity as we have witnessed today. If he allows him to make free with the girls as well, it is likely more than mere friendship.”

Oscar set Wamba’s boots on the floor beside him and pulled off his own. “Do you suppose Morris has something to do with it? The abbot does seem friendly with Brix.”

“That is an interesting thought,” Wamba mused. He wandered over to the table, pulling the record book that had first raised their suspicions from beneath a pair of scrolls and flipping it open on the tabletop. Oscar left him to it and concentrated on his boots.

Wamba was still reading, his wine cup empty beside him, when a knock on the door announced Farren’s arrival.

“Are you ready?” he asked, while Oscar hastily pulled on his boots.

“Yes,” Wamba said, closing the book and squaring his shoulders, bracing himself for battle.

Rose was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. She led them to a private chamber behind the common room where the Abbot of Whalley waited. He had removed his furs, though his ostentatious stole remained draped over his shoulders. The firelight glinted off of his bald pate.

“Cedric,” he greeted Wamba with a nod.

“Father Abbot,” Wamba returned, perfectly even.

“Won’t you sit?”

There were only two chairs, though there was food enough to feed every man they had brought with them to Blackburn, and two or three more besides. The boar that Morris had tended over the fire sat at the center of an impressive spread, flanked by steaming puddings, a tureen of stewed vegetables, and at least one pie that Oscar could see. Bread, cheese, and precious honey completed the feast. Oscar’s stomach grumbled piteously. He patted it soothingly, promising himself a hasty trip to the kitchens for a share of what Wamba and the abbot did not consume once this supper was over.

He pulled Wamba’s chair out for him instead, falling readily enough into the role of servant. Oscar was well aware that his temperament made him ill-suited to his position. His inherent resentment of the nobility, or indeed any who sought to assert their authority over him, meant that he bridled at commands from any and all who outranked him, up to and including the king himself, and when he obeyed he nearly always did so grudgingly. Wamba was the only exception, due in large part to the fact that he never actually ordered Oscar to do anything, merely trusted him to fulfill his role in the pretense they were forced to maintain. It helped also that Wamba allowed Oscar all manner of liberties when they were alone.

Rose poured dark wine for the abbot, while he eyed Farren standing tall and forbidding just inside the door. “Your man will wait in the hall, surely?”

“You have some objection to his presence?” Wamba asked innocently, sitting back to let Oscar fill his trencher.

“I must say it puts me at something of a disadvantage,” the abbot said. “As you can see, I have no armed guard at all, and certainly would not think to bring one to a friendly meal such as this.”

Wamba tilted his head. “Then I will abide by your customs, though surely you can forgive me an abundance of caution. London is a different beast altogether.”

Farren scowled, but did as he was being asked and turned to leave. Oscar was certain he had gone no farther than the corridor, well within earshot should some trouble erupt. He took up Farren’s post beside the door to wait until he was needed again.

“I do not doubt that,” the abbot said. “It has been many years since I ventured to the king’s city, but what I remember of it is a stinking mess of shadowed knives and treachery.”

Oscar bristled to hear his home so maligned, his hand clenching into fists behind his back. He was saved from his own hotheaded impulses by Wamba’s calm rejoinder. “It has its share of dark corners, I admit, but there is beauty to be found there as well.”

“Virtues only one born to its squalor can speak of fondly, certainly.”

“Hardly,” Wamba said. “I myself have been at court for only a handful of years, after an upbringing in the wilds of the Greenwood, and I have found the city most welcoming.”

“Oh? You must tell me more of these purported charms, that I can make a point of seeking them out when next I find myself there.”

Oscar was beginning to wonder how long the meaningless small talk would go on, when a voice murmured in his ear, “He must be trying to impress your magistrate.”

“What?” he whispered, and turned to raise a questioning brow at Rose. “They’ve done nothing but politely disagree with one another so far.”

“He hasn’t snapped at me once,” she said, her lips barely moving, “or thrown anything.”

“He throws things at you?”

“He’s broken more crockery than I can count,” Rose said.

“Why does Fuller let him get away with it?”

“Father Abbot looks after him,” Rose shrugged. She leaned closer, so that her mouth was between Oscar’s head and the wall, muffling her voice. “There was another inn, just outside of town. People started going there. Food was better, beds cleaner. The abbot had words with Lord Brix and the owner was arrested the very next day. Locked up for not paying his taxes.”

Oscar’s heart sped in his chest, excited at the implication of her words. He forced himself to be calm, and keep his voice low as he asked, “Are they particular friends?”

Rose glanced at the table, biting her lip, clearly hesitant to speak. Oscar opened his mouth, to make some further entreaty, when the abbot’s voice filtered back into his awareness.

“Surely you must see that it is God’s will that will prevail here.”

Abruptly, his attention snapped back to the table.

Wamba was leaning on his elbow, one hand rubbing thoughtfully across his mouth, masking his expression. “I admit I do not share your clarity in that regard,” he said drily.

“You cannot deny that the hand of God is clear in this matter,” the abbot insisted. “In His wisdom, He saw fit to take the Lady Adeney’s children to His kingdom. The only conclusion must be that His will is that her lands be given over to His servants in this earthly realm.”

Oscar held his breath. Wamba was not a devout man, and Oscar had taken up Wamba’s habit of eschewing Sunday mass in favor of lazing abed with him, engaged more often than not in his own more enjoyable form of worship. He had never asked why this was, but he knew that Wamba had little patience for those who sought to put forth divine justifications for their worst impulses. It was no surprise, therefore, when he laced his hands together on the table, looked the abbot in the eye, and said, “God took the lady’s children, but the laws of inheritance are the laws of man. Surely you do not posit that God himself handed down a new scripture to govern such mundane matters as tenancy.”

The abbot’s eyes widened, obviously unaccustomed to his religious authority being challenged in this manner. “Is the king not the hand of God on earth, seeing His will done? Are his officials not His agents in this?”

“The king’s mandate may be divine,” Wamba said, “but I, for one, would hesitate to make claim to speak for the Almightly.”

“You need take no holy order to be His tool,” the abbot told him, in a tone he might have adopted when reasoning with a child. “He works through us all. We must be humble enough to accept that while His plan may be beyond our comprehension, He guides us as surely as a shepherd does his flock, and with equal compassion.”

The corner of Wamba’s mouth was tightening, the only outward sign of his mounting displeasure. “I confess I cannot see the same benevolent purpose you do in a virtuous woman losing all of her children and being forced to live on without them. Surely if this was His mercy, He might have taken the mother as well and spared her the suffering of their loss.”

“It is not for us to question the will of God,” the abbot said simply.

“No,” Wamba said, “but it is our duty to act with compassion toward our fellow men, and do what we can to lighten the burden that life has placed upon them.”

“He put each of us on a course, and we must overcome the adversity He presents us. He created us, He knows our weaknesses, and He would never set us challenges greater than we can overcome.”

It was precisely the wrong thing to say to Wamba, who had suffered harsher trials than any man should be asked to endure. To hear it suggested that there was some justice in that, some design, made Oscar vaguely ill. He watched the last of Wamba’s courtesy fade, the anger breaking through.

“In my experience, that common wisdom is employed by many as justification for terrible deeds. God may have set us in motion, but men control their own actions, and should be held responsible for them.”

The abbot laughed weakly. “I am beginning to suspect you are something of a heretic, Cedric.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Wamba said, his jaw tight. “I am merely cautious of putting words in the mouth of God. Now, if you will excuse me, I seem to have lost my appetite.”

He pushed back from the table and stood, faster than Oscar could reach him. Rose watched wide-eyed as he stalked from the room, and Oscar quickly followed, offering her a quick shrug. Farren, waiting just as Oscar had predicted, made no comment on their sudden departure.

Wamba’s shoulders were stiff, his back rigidly straight, and it was not until the door to their chamber closed behind them that Oscar dared to reach out and touch him. He laid a hand gently on one trembling arm.

“Are you alright?”

Beneath his touch, Wamba wilted. He fell into one of the hard chairs beside the table with a groan, and dropped his head into his hands. “I should not have been so transparent.”

“Why were you so angry?” Oscar dared to ask, letting his hand rest, just lightly, on Wamba’s shoulder.

Wamba’s body heaved in a sigh. “It is not God’s due that he seeks to improve, but his own, and in most shameless fashion, like so many of his ilk.”

Oscar frowned, confused. “You dislike the clergy?”

“I dislike hypocrisy,” Wamba said, “and in my experience, those who claim to speak for God are some of its worst perpetrators.”

“Is that why you don’t go to church?” Oscar asked hesitantly, ignoring the instinct that told him it would be kinder to let it rest.

“In part.” Wamba sat back in the chair, his face turned away from Oscar as he confessed, very quietly, “My first master. He sold me, now and then, for an hour or a night. There were some, more than one, who made play at correcting me. They told me I deserved what they gave me as punishment for my wickedness in stirring their desires.”

Oscar’s guts felt strangely liquid, rivulets of icy shock running down his legs. His throat was painfully tight. Wamba did not look at him.

“I know they are not all frauds,” he said, soft and defeated, “but I cannot stomach their righteous sermons any longer. I have spent enough time on my knees in God’s house and been granted no salvation, not when I begged for it, when I screamed for it.” His cheeks were colored now, with shame that should not be his.

“I’m sorry,” Oscar choked out at last. It seemed much too little to offer, after such a revelation, but it was all he had. That, and the assurance that he loved Wamba no less for any of it.

“I’m quite ruined, Oscar,” Wamba said. “In nearly every way.”

There was an offer there, an invitation to flee if these new facets of his lover were more than he could accept. Oscar offered him a hand instead, palm up. Wamba looked at it for a long moment, before uncertainly placing his own hand in Oscar’s.

Oscar used it to pull him to his feet, enfolding him in a secure embrace, frightened by the tremors that chased through him still. “You’re not ruined,” he murmured into Wamba’s ear. “You’re tempered.”

Wamba huffed a faint laugh into his neck, and his arms closed tight about Oscar’s back. They stayed that way, holding one another, for a long time. When Wamba’s trembling stilled at last, Oscar released him to bring him more wine.

“You haven’t eaten,” Wamba realized, eyes wide and apologetic as he blinked up at Oscar. Oscar was simply happy to have that dark gaze meet his again.

“Rose will keep something for me.” Saying her name reminded him of what she had revealed to him about the abbot and Brix. He related it quickly to Wamba.

“A shame you did not learn the exact nature of their relationship.”

“I still have time,” Oscar shrugged, “and now we know he’s determined to get that land for the church.”

“We know his aim,” Wamba agreed. “What we do not know is whether Lord Brix will support him.”

“We know he has done so in the past.”

“Yes, but what is he receiving in return?"

“Prayer?” Oscar ventured.

“Lord Brix seems far too pragmatic a man to be swayed by such intangible rewards alone.”

“Oh!” Oscar remembered suddenly. “There was something about the other inn in the records. The land was confiscated, for the unpaid taxes.”

“Could it have been sold?”

“I can’t remember,” Oscar admitted.

“Well, we have all the records. We can go back again.”

“It’s Sunday in two days,” Oscar said. “We can do it then, when we won’t be disturbed.”

Wamba looked up at him, and his smile warmed Oscar through. “Yes, I suppose we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of physical and sexual abuse of a child.


	25. Chapter 25

The sun was shining brightly the following morning. Oscar squinted up at it resentfully as they made their way to the guildhall once more, his mood still dark as the rainclouds that had shadowed their first day in Blackburn, coupled now with a purely bodily exhaustion. Wamba had slept poorly, and as a result so had Oscar. When Wamba had abandoned the pursuit of rest at last and risen to return to his reading, still several hours before dawn, Oscar had followed, tugging a blanket with him to wrap around Wamba’s shoulders. So they sat together through the wee hours, scouring the records again for any clue that might have been missed.

When dawn finally came, they were no closer to finding a clear link between Brix and the Abbot of Whalley, and Oscar found himself wondering if it was possible to go mad from frustration. He knew the plot was there, but that the pieces would not come together to form a picture he could understand. He was only more certain of it when he entered the guildhall behind Wamba to see Brix and the unpleasant abbot engaged in a hushed conversation before the breakfast table. They both glanced sidelong to the door, taking note of the new arrivals, and quickly separated.

The abbot turned and made his way to the council chamber, while Brix approached Wamba, a rigid rictus of a smile fixed on his face.

“Good morning!”

“Lord Brix,” Wamba returned, with the faintest of bows.

“I heard that you spent the evening with our abbot,” Brix said, his levity forced. “I regret that I was unable to join you, but other obligations called.”

“I do not think it could rightly be called an evening,” Wamba said, “as we had hardly sampled the meal before I found myself indisposed.”

Brix was evidently not expecting him to address the unpleasant end to the meal so directly. He floundered a bit, his smile falling away momentarily. “Of course,” he said at last. “I do hope our abbot did not give offense. He can be most dogmatic in matters of faith.”

“Certainly not,” Wamba brushed off the suggestion. He offered no further explanation, merely watched Brix impassively. Oscar swallowed a snicker at the noble's discomfort.

Silence hung between them for a long moment, growing more strained, until Brix finally broke it. “Ah, excellent,” he said. “I should see to preparations in the council chamber. Until later, then.”

He quickly strode off, following the abbot. This gave Oscar the opportunity to shepherd Wamba to the table. He smiled at Rose, who handed him a mug and curtsied to Wamba. “Good morning, my lord.”

Wamba acknowledged her with a smile, and looked over the food on offer. Oscar watched him wallow in indecision for a moment, then finally reached out to fill a plate himself, with a pointed sigh. Wamba’s lip quirked, privately amused.

“Cedric,” came a voice from Wamba’s other side, “I do not think we have been introduced.”

Oscar and Wamba both turned to find Percival standing there. The deceased Lord Adeney’s cousin had, in Oscar’s opinion, the most valid claim on the disputed estate. He was a stocky man, with a short gray beard and a serious air. He had spoken little during the first day’s melee.

“Lord Percival,” Wamba greeted him. “Please forgive my ill manners. I quite lost track of you in yesterday’s fray. With so many new faces, it was difficult to keep everyone sorted.”

“No need to apologize,” Percival assured him. “I am at a disadvantage in this company myself. Other than my own servants, all are strangers to me.”

“That is understandable. You make your home at York at present, if I am not mistaken.”

Percival’s brow rose, impressed. “You are not. And you are of Rotherwood, correct?”

“I am,” Wamba nodded.

“I was acquainted with Cedric the Saxon, you know.”

Oscar tensed, wary. The last time he had heard those words from a strange lord in an unfriendly place, it had ended very poorly for all of them. It seemed Percival was benign, however. If he remembered Wamba, he gave no hint of it.

“We had some dealings over the years. He was a very honorable man. I was saddened to hear of his passing.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Wamba said, lowering his eyes, though whether out of respect or to hide his expression, Oscar could not tell. “It was a great loss for Rotherwood.”

“And for England, though perhaps I should not speak for all of them,” Percival replied. “This is my first visit to Lancashire. I find the people of Blackburn, and of my cousin’s estate, somewhat more hostile than expected.”

“There is a great deal of wealth at play,” Wamba noted, “and a great many people whose lives and livelihoods depend on the outcome of this council.”

“I am glad to hear you say it. It seems that duty to those people is the one thing that has been forgotten in this matter.”

“Is it duty that brings you here, my lord?” Wamba asked.

“Indeed,” Percival said. “I have more than sufficient lands to support myself and my family. I have no need of more, only I did not think it proper that such a storied estate go to a merchant who would no doubt sell it off piecemeal. At least I can ensure the land and its people are stewarded properly. Like Urith.”

“You mean the lady’s maid?”

“Exile to a nunnery is no suitable reward for a lifetime of loyal service,” Percival said seriously.

“Indeed, my lord,” Wamba said, warmth creeping into his voice that had been shown to no other at the council thus far. If Percival had approached Wamba in the hopes of winning his support, he was succeeding admirably. Wamba believed firmly in respect for duty, not only his own to the king, to Ivanhoe, but his opinions of others were colored by their attitude toward their own responsibilities. Percival seemed, on the surface, a man seeking to do right in fulfillment of his obligations.

It gave Oscar hope that the second day of the mediation might go more smoothly, that reason would prevail. These hopes were dashed almost immediately as they gathered, a much smaller group, in the council chamber. Most of the tables had been moved to the sides, and only four now remained, forming a square in the center of the room. Brix sat at the head of the table, and directed Wamba to a seat beside the abbot, while Percival took the place across, a man who must be his servant placing a cup down at his elbow. There was still no seat for Oscar, so he took up a post behind Wamba’s chair once more, and examined the final pair involved in the dispute as they claimed the remaining seats.

The Lady Adeney’s sister Eleanor was a gray-haired woman with a lined face and a vacant stare. Her gown was of fine silk, but showed clear signs of wear in the thinning and fraying of fine threads around the cuffs of the sleeves and collar, the waist and elbows. Her husband Bertram exuded the energy she lacked, a rangy older man with a hungry stare in equally aged finery. Oscar recognized him as the man who had shouted down the maid Urith the previous day.

“Thank God that mob is gone,” he sneered, while his wife gazed up at one of the windows, distant.

“Yes,” Brix agreed. “Thanks to you, Cedric, for a most efficient method of sorting out the wheat from the chaff. Today, let us see if we can determine the worthiest claim among the remaining.”

What began as an orderly discussion quickly succumbed to turmoil once more. The arguing rose in a steady escalation throughout the morning. It was Betram who spoke the longest and the loudest, repeatedly shouting down Percival, and even the abbot, with strenuous objections. Brix appeared disinclined to make a decision, and let them go in circles throughout the morning, while Oscar grew weary, finding himself in sympathy with Eleanor and her clear wish to be anywhere but the guildhall where she found herself.

Then, just when Oscar was certain they had said everything there was to be heard, Brix remarked casually, "If there is no clear champion, perhaps we can come to some equitable division."

That set them off again, and now estate records were being opened, maps unrolled and quills readied. Throughout the afternoon, as Oscar fought the urge to shift his weight and relieve the growing pain in his back, the debate continued. They argued over how many swine were required to equal the value of a mill, whether land should be measured by the size of the plot or the number of serfs that lived upon it or the health of its harvest. Rose flitted in and out of the room regularly, bringing fresh wine and food when it was wanted, with a smile for Oscar each time. Wamba kept silent, and by the time the argument had turned to the best way to quantify the yield of fish of a given stream, he knew there would be no resolution that day either.

Brix finally confirmed it, stating simply, “I shall need more time to consider. Let us meet again on Monday to talk further.”

Wamba thankfully received no invitation to dine that night. Percival left quickly, his quiet servant following. Betram approached Brix, no doubt planning to plead his case anew. Wamba and Oscar took advantage of the distraction to make their escape, and were able to return to their chamber in the inn without incident.

“What was the point of that?” Oscar asked Wamba, once they were alone.

“Who can say?” Wamba blew out a long breath, exasperated. “Perhaps he means to cause one of them to become angered and leave. Perhaps he demurs merely to create the impression of giving the matter due consideration before he makes a decision.”

“Did you learn anything useful?”

“You heard everything I did,” Wamba said, dropping into a chair. “What did you think?”

“That I am glad I am not one of Lady Adeney’s servants,” he said.

Wamba huffed a weary laugh, leaning his head on the knuckles of one hand. “That is perhaps the most astute conclusion we are likely to draw from today’s proceedings.”

“In that case,” Oscar said, “there’s no need to think about it any further today. I’m going to fetch us some supper, and then we can find some more pleasant way to spend our evening than worrying.” He bent and placed a quick kiss on Wamba’s mouth, swiping his tongue once over the seam of his lips, a promise, before he pulled away.

His back throbbed in a dull burst of pain as he straightened. He winced, throwing a hand back to rub at the twitching muscles, and Wamba’s smile collapsed into concern. “It’s nothing.” Oscar waved it off and pounded at the stiff stretch just above his rump with one fist as he made his way downstairs.

Rose was in the kitchens, directing Morris as he laid out a line of trays. The fire the hearth was banked, the cooks nowhere in sight, and a much more humble meal of stew and bread waiting.

“Evening, Rose. Morris.”

The towheaded boy glanced up through his fringe at Oscar, and his lips tilted in a bare smile.

Rose’s smile was more direct, and tinged with sympathy. “Had your fill of the council yet?”

Oscar chuckled wryly. “I have, but I doubt Lord Brix feels the same.”

“He does enjoy the spectacle,” Rose said, laying out bowls on the prepared trays.

“How long can he possibly draw this out?” Oscar groaned.

“Until he grows bored with it, I imagine,” Rose shrugged. “Don’t much see the point. He’s just going to give it to the abbot in the end, anyway.”

Oscar’s ears perked at that. “What makes you say so?” he asked, deliberately casual.

"You'll never guess." Rose glanced quickly around the room. It was empty, but for Morris who watched them from the corner of his eye. Then she leaned forward and breathed, with the glee that came with revealing another’s secret, “They’re brothers.”

“What?” Oscar yelped.

Rose shushed him urgently, hands waving and eyes darting about once more, though all the doors into the kitchen remained closed.

“That can’t be,” he said, reining his voice back to an urgent whisper. “There would be some record of it. We’ve been and over and over Brix’s family.”

Rose shook her head, and waved Oscar close again. “The abbot was his father’s illegitimate son by a servant girl. Jonathan, he was called then. They were raised together, until Jonathan was given to the church.”

Oscar gaped at her, as his mind began to line up the disparate pieces of the puzzle. “Did Brix make him abbot?”

“Can’t do that, can he?” Rose said. “He doesn’t have any say in who the church appoints. Not officially, at least. But the rumor is he appealed to the bishop. Might have given him a little encouragement, if you get my meaning.”

“A bribe?”

Rose smiled, pleased with Oscar’s astonishment at her revelations. “Nobody knows for certain. Just that the old abbot died and then Jonathan was back, in charge though he’s younger than most of his monks. Spending all his time here in Blackburn, drinking and making trouble for the girls.”

“Does Brix join him?”

“More often than not,” Rose said. “They’re thick as thieves, and if you’re in with them, you’re in good, like Fuller.”

Oscar recalled what she had told him the night before. “You mean how Brix had the other innkeeper jailed?”

“Church got the land, for the missing tithes,” she said. “The abbot sold it to Fuller for next to nothing.”

“Oh!” Oscar gasped, the realization jolting through him like a thunderbolt. That was it. The missing connection, the proof they needed, was in the church records. What Ivanhoe had brought back to London was only half of the picture, a tantalizing and intriguing hint to the scheme, but meaningless without the records locked behind the authority of the church.

“Did you want supper?” Rose asked, breaking Oscar free of his stupefied epiphany.

“Yes,” he coughed. “Yes, but first tell me. Where do they hold the trials for the spiritual court?”

His sudden intensity must have alarmed her, for she frowned, but answered nonetheless. “In the church beside the guildhall. Used to be at the abbey, but he moved it here when he became abbot. I think he likes the symmetry with Lord Brix.”

It was the best answer Oscar could have hoped for. The trials were held in Blackburn, and therefore the records would likely be there, too. Oscar’s heart leapt into a gallop. What they needed was so close, had been there within reach this whole time. The pure relief of it danced through him, sparking a giddy laugh.

“Thank you, Rose,” he said sincerely, clasping her hands between his. “Thank you!”

He knew he could not ask Wamba, nor consult him at all. Wamba would try to stop him, to protect him and find another, official way to procure the records. He might succeed, but the chances were even that the documents would be lost before Wamba could even come close to them. The church was as good as untouchable, legally beyond the authority of even a royal magistrate. There was only one chance to claim the proof they needed to bring Brix and his illegitimate brother’s tyranny to an end.

Oscar stepped out of the inn into the cool night, and went to take it.


	26. Chapter 26

The central square was deserted, the penetrating blackness of night held at bay only by the single torch that burned above the main door of the inn, and the light from the open window into the chamber where Wamba waited. Oscar put his lover deliberately from his mind as he ducked quickly from the pool of warm torchlight into the shadows, hiding himself away from any watchful eyes. Crouched close to the damp ground beside the inn, he stared across toward the dark guildhall, and the large stone edifice just beside it. The church was an indistinct patch of shadow, the belfry bleeding into the dark of the night sky, but the windows were lit from within by faint candlelight, that faded into view as Oscar’s eyes adjusted to the night.

Their hazy glow gave Oscar a beacon to aim for as he slunk around the perimeter of the square, dodging barrels, boxes and the odd detritus that littered the spaces between the buildings. His steps were light and careful, only the barest sound when gravel crunched beneath his boots. His blood was racing, his pains forgotten as purpose brought renewed vigor to his limbs, alertness to his senses. It was a relief to have a direction once more, a clear goal, after so long mired in forced idleness.

Oscar slipped into the narrow street beside the church, keeping his back to the neighboring house while he looked up at the solid gray stone and considered how to gain entry. The main doors of the church would likely be open, ready to welcome any in need of shelter. They were also the most likely to get him caught. He decided to search for side doors first, hoping his luck would hold just a little longer.

A thump, and something shifted in the shadows. Oscar’s head snapped around sharply in the direction of the noise, expecting some stray cat or other beast. He was not prepared for the pair of distinctly human eyes that watched him over the lip of a barrel of rainwater. Panic dove along his limbs, and he whirled, fists up and prepared to fight. His stalker gasped, and crouched down quickly behind the barrel.

Alarm fading to bemusement, Oscar craned his neck to try to get a better view. “Who’s there?” he demanded in a rough whisper. “Why are you following me?”

The stooped figure that crept haltingly from behind the barrel, white blonde head bowed, was immediately familiar. Oscar’s fists unclenched and fell loose to his sides as he blinked at Morris.

“What are you doing?” he asked the boy. “It could be dangerous out here at night.”

Morris did not break his silence, but the way he glanced between Oscar and the church spoke eloquently enough of his intentions.

“Do you know a way inside?” Oscar ventured.

Morris nodded eagerly, and waved for Oscar to follow as he shuffled down the narrow alley toward the rear of the building. They circled all the way around and to the other side, passing at least two doors that Oscar saw, before coming to a stop at last beside a small wooden postern. It opened easily when Morris pushed it. The boy turned to look expectantly at Oscar.

“That's brilliant,” Oscar said fervently, “but why are you helping me?”

Morris shrugged, looking away, to the open door. Then his jaw set in a determined line, and he plunged into the shadowed interior of the church. Oscar followed, a bit baffled by the boy’s sudden boldness. Morris had displayed nothing but a near crippling timidity since Oscar had met him. Though Morris had also heard all that Oscar and Rose had said, and could likely guess what Oscar meant to do with the proof he was after. If anyone had cause to want Brix and the abbot removed from power, it was Morris.

Inside the church, the air was quiet and still. Soft candlelight bathed the apse, and dotted the sides of the nave, which rose in a gentle arch over the humble wooden pews. Oscar and Morris crouched at the corner of the niche where they had entered, searching for any sign of life and thankfully finding none. They snuck quietly up past the altar, where Oscar snatched a candle down from one of the racks they passed. He shielded it in his cupped palm while he followed Morris through another door, which groaned faintly, into the vestry.

Only once the door was closed behind them did Oscar uncover the candle and lift it high, turning in a slow circle while he peered into the gloom by that faint illumination. The room was cramped, no more than a half dozen paces from one end to the other. A stand near the door held a fine white robe and embroidered stole, official vestments hung out in preparation for mass the next morning. A tall wooden cabinet sat behind. Oscar tugged at the doors, but they were locked. He did not force them, moving on instead past a tidy hearth and a small desk. Then, finally, the shadows shifted and resolved themselves into a set of shelves, stacked with scrolls and books.

Oscar wanted to crow with victory. He swallowed it down, though he could not contain his elated grin. “You’re a treasure, Morris,” he said, clapping the boy on one hunched shoulder. Morris smiled up at him, pleased.

“You should probably go now, though,” Oscar continued. “Unless you can read, there’s nothing more for you to do.”

Morris tilted his head, a mild frown taking the place of the smile.

“This might take me some time, and I wouldn’t want to get you caught. I’ll see you back at the inn.”

Morris hesitated a moment more, looking indecisively between Oscar and the door. Then he nodded, and shuffled off, leaving Oscar alone in the dark room with a needle to find in the haystack of records. He used his candle to light another that sat in a simple iron holder on the desk, and carefully balanced the first beside it, giving him more light. The shelves were full, but nothing nearly so intimidating as the royal archives. He squared his shoulders, and reached for the first one.

It was a moral treatise of some sort, on the cleanliness of body and soul. Oscar quickly put it back. The next was several years of records of tithes, with black marks for those who had been judged to have given less than their due share. Oscar replaced this as well. Baptisms, weddings, funerals. Each sacrament had a separate record. There was official correspondence, decrees from various religious authorities, more than one heavy tome in a language that Oscar could not read but believed to be Latin. One by one, Oscar dismissed them all, growing a little more disheartened as he neared the bottom of the shelves.

He had begun to fear that what he sought was not in the church after all, when a slim volume fell open in his hand, and his eyes lit at last on a very familiar style of record keeping. Dates, names, and judgments were laid out in neat rows. Oscar’s spirits soared. He barked a laugh, one fist punching the air in triumph. He quickly began to flip the pages, seeing how far back the record went.

That was when he heard it. A tap of footsteps on stone, just beyond the door, followed by the rattle of the handle. Oscar froze for an instant, then instinct took over and he leapt from the shelves to the desk. He quickly blew out the candles, and ducked down behind the desk, pulling his legs from view just as the door creaked open on its rusted hinges.

Oscar held his breath, the record book clasped tightly between his knees and chest, one corner pressing uncomfortably into his sternum, as light fell across the room from the door, casting long shadows. Oscar watched them move, turning from one side of the room to the other.

“I know you’re there, child.”

Oscar’s heart leapt into his throat, pounding deafeningly in his ears.

“What is it you seek here? If you’ve need of shelter, I can give you a bed for the night. If alms are your aim, I am afraid you will find none here.”

The voice was calm and kind. The tone reminded Oscar of Wamba when he was attempting to soothe timid victims in the tribunal.

“God grants mercy and aid to all. There is no need to fear. Come out, and speak with me.”

Oscar considered his options. He could wait, and hope the man would leave, but this seemed unlikely. He could force his way out, but he quickly dismissed the idea. No matter how desperate he was, he could not attack a stranger who had so far offered only kindness. Finally, resigned, he pushed himself from the cramped space behind the desk, and stood. The man in the door was a priest. His robes were plain and brown, and a wooden cross hung on a thong around his neck. His face was lined, careworn, his hair thin and white.

“It is not aid I seek, father,” Oscar said. “At least, not of the kind you mean.”

The priest regarded him curiously. “I do not know your face.”

“I am a visitor,” Oscar told him. “From London.”

Gray eyes looked him over, coming to rest on the book that he still held clutched to his chest. He made a thoughtful noise. “So the time has come at last.”

“What?” Oscar frowned.

The priest tucked his hands into the long sleeves of his robe, and smiled at Oscar. “I asked God, in my prayers, to send us someone to put a stop to the grave injustices being committed here.”

“You know what the abbot has been doing?” Oscar asked. “Along with Brix?”

“All in this village are affected, but none can stand against them and the authority they wield. I have tried to offer counsel, but my words hold no sway any longer.” He nodded to Oscar. “I had no recourse, but to pray, and now God has sent you to us.”

Oscar squirmed, uncomfortable at the implication “Not me,” he insisted. “Perhaps the man I serve.”

“You are as much an instrument of His will, certainly,” the priest said.

Oscar watched the old man warily. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“Of course not,” the priest smiled. “It is not for me to interfere with God’s plan. Take that, and go.”

He stepped away from the door, clearing a path for Oscar to make his escape. Still watching him carefully, lest the easy acceptance prove a ruse, Oscar sidled toward the door.

His foot had barely crossed the threshold, when the priest said, “Wait a moment, child.” Oscar stopped and turned, nervous again, but the priest merely offered him another slim volume, bound in dark hide. “You’ll want this one as well.”

Oscar took it, tucking it under his arm with the first. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, smiling at the old man for the first time. “You won’t regret this.” Then he turned and darted for the door, the precious books held protectively to his side.

He returned to the inn the way he had come, skirting the edges of the square, and considering what Wamba meant when he said he did not feel justified to speak for God. Divine sanction was remarkably easy to claim, as long as God chose to abstain from making His true wishes known. The old priest had even suggested that Wamba and Oscar were here in Blackburn because of some greater power. Oscar shrugged off the logical dilemma, deciding that it was much easier to take responsibility for his own actions, to give Wamba the credit for addressing wrongs that became apparent to him, than to ascribe it all to God.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as he slipped into the inn and found an unexpected scene waiting. He saw Morris first, scowling at the floor with his jaw set in a stubborn knot. Standing over him were Rose and an agitated Wamba.

“Won’t you tell me where he’s gone?” Wamba asked, his voice rough and just barely composed.

Morris shook his head, stubbornly closemouthed.

“Just tell him!” Rose pleaded, throwing up her hands in frustration. “I know you followed him!”

Still, Morris said nothing. His shoulders hunched defensively, as though bracing for a blow.

“Who’s missing?” Oscar asked, deliberately light, and three shocked faces turned to him at once.

“Oscar!” Wamba exhaled in a burst of relief, eyes wide and alarmed, sending a twinge of regret through Oscar for the worry he had caused. Wamba rounded the table between them, one hand outstretched toward Oscar’s face.

“No!”

Wamba stopped short, rocking backward on his heels in his surprise. Oscar blinked back at him, equally stunned. As one, they turned in the direction of the shout.

Morris was shaking, his hands tight fists at his side, and a poisonous glare turned on Wamba. Oscar looked at Wamba’s hand, frozen in the air between them, and he realized what Morris must have thought.

“He wasn’t going to hurt me, Morris,” he said gently. “He won’t hurt you, either.”

The boy’s gaze was still mistrustful, watching as Wamba’s arm fell limp to his side, his face contorted in sympathy. It made sense that Morris would have little faith in any who bore the title of magistrate.

Oscar went to him, and put a hand on his trembling shoulder. “Thanks, Morris,” he said. “You’re a true friend.”

Morris looked away from Wamba at last, giving Oscar a tentative smile.

“Where have you been?” Wamba asked behind him.

Oscar turned again, and hefted the books in his hand. “Fetching the information we need.”

“What are those?” Wamba asked, coming close to take them from Oscar’s grasp.

“The records of the church tribunal,” Oscar told him, watching his eyes widen, “and proof that the abbot has been working with Brix to consolidate their power.”

Wamba flipped through the vellum pages in amazement. “Did you steal these?”

“No,” Oscar said defensively.

Wamba looked up, raising one eloquent brow.

“I didn’t!” Oscar insisted. Then, sheepishly, he confessed, “I was going to, but the priest found me and gave them to me.”

“Father Alfred?” Rose asked.

“We didn’t properly introduce ourselves.”

“It must be him,” Rose said. “Father Alfred is a good man. He does what he can. Takes care of us. But he can’t stand up to the abbot.”

“Though he has managed to find a novel way around the problem,” Wamba noted, snapping the volumes in his hand closed. “How did you know to look for these?”

Oscar glanced over at his source. “Rose?”

She hesitated, but at his nod, she repeated what she had told Oscar, about the two brothers and their schemes.

Wamba shook his head, amazed. “There was no record of it.” He flipped through the books again, then smiled at Oscar. “It looks like we have more work to do.”

“After we eat,” Oscar said firmly, his stomach reminding him resentfully of his missed supper.

“I’ll make you a tray,” Rose said, tugging Morris after her to the kitchens.

Oscar grinned at Wamba once they were alone. “Admit it. I did something useful this time.”

“You did,” Wamba agreed, his smile teasing. “You remain an abysmal thief, however.”

Oscar scoffed. “I’m out of practice, is all.”

“You were never any good at it when you were in practice, Oscar.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, and nudged Wamba ahead of him up the stairs. They shared a simple meal while Oscar recounted the tale of his adventure, lethargy settling heavy on his limbs as the food and wine warmed his belly and the excitement faded. He kicked his feet out before him and leaned back in his chair, loath to move. Wamba laughed softly, collecting Oscar’s bowl and cup to stack them on the tray along with his own. Oscar quickly gathered himself. “I’ll do that.”

“I can manage,” Wamba said.

Oscar shook his head, and braced his arms on the chair to lever himself up. “You shouldn’t be seen doing servants’ work.”

He made it to his feet, but only just, before sharp pain lanced up his spine, stabbing nearly into his brain. He wobbled, cursed, and caught himself quickly on the edge of the table, pounding at the small of his back with an aggravated fist.

Wamba dropped the dishes to grasp his arms instead, holding him steady. “What happened? Are you hurt? Why didn't you say something?” he asked, worried eyes peering up into Oscar’s.

“Just my back,” Oscar grumbled, flushing. “I’m not used to standing still for so long.”

Wamba’s lip quirked, the concern fading. “Is that all?”

He turned Oscar and guided him the short distance to the bed, letting him fall to sit on the mattress. His clever hands quickly undid Oscar’s belt, setting it aside and tugging his tunic up over his head.

“What are you doing?” Oscar asked him, obediently lifting his arms so Wamba could pull the cloth free.

“What I can,” Wamba said, as he knelt to pull off Oscar’s boots. “Lie down. On your front.”

Oscar’s brows rose, surprised, but he did as Wamba asked, settling on his stomach and folding his arms beneath his head. He turned his face so he could watch Wamba sort through one of their packs, pulling out the vial of clear oil. Oscar’s cock was immediately interested, growing more so as Wamba kicked off his boots, then pulled off his own overtunic and set it aside. A thrill of anticipation shivered through Oscar’s belly, despite the soreness still throbbing along his spine.

It was a mild disappointment when Wamba climbed up onto the bed still in his shirt and trousers. He swung one leg over Oscar, settling astride his thighs, his weight just barely resting on Oscar's legs. “You should think about requesting a bath tomorrow,” he said.

“Alright,” Oscar agreed absently, distracted as Wamba pulled the cork from the bottle with a faint squeak.

The drip of cool oil on his skin, just at the small of his back, made him jump. Then the vial was set aside, and strong hands pressed down in that same place, spreading the oil and bearing him down into the mattress. Oscar sighed, and closed his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, Wamba kneaded the heels of his hands into the muscles of Oscar’s back where they were cramped and taut. It hurt, but Oscar fought the urge to squirm away, forcing his body to relax and let Wamba work, thumbs bracketing his spine.

When the resistance finally released, it was sudden, a snap and then his muscles went liquid and loose. He groaned with relief, while the pain faded, and Wamba's hands grew gentle, caressing and comforting now. That touch ran up the length of his back, flowing over his shoulders and down again in long, smooth loops. Warmth spread over him, a lazy hum of arousal vibrating through his belly. He was too relaxed to do other than bask in it, eyelids heavy and consciousness fading.

A gentle kiss on his shoulder brought him back to the present. “The records,” he mumbled muzzily, fighting the pull of sleep.

“Will wait,” Wamba said softly.

“What about the tray?” Oscar insisted.

Wamba hushed him. Another kiss, to his neck this time, and the soft brush of Wamba’s hair on his cheek, and Oscar could not remember feeling so cherished in all his life.

“Sleep, love,” Wamba murmured. “You’ve earned it.”

Warm and content, Oscar obeyed.


	27. Chapter 27

The church records were a treasure trove.

On Sunday morning, after Oscar had celebrated his newly hale body with a thorough and vigorous demonstration of his gratitude for the tender care Wamba had afforded him, they pried themselves from the bed and set to work once more. Oscar laid out the two record books Father Alfred had surrendered to him on the table beside those from the lay tribunal, carefully matching the dates. He discovered that the second was a list of charitable gifts to the church by the people of Blackburn. He wondered at the reason the old priest had given it to him, a mystification that persisted only until he began to read.

Side by side, the pattern was clear. Matters that were raised in one court were invariably mirrored in the other, or shuffled back and forth in such a way that the result was a tangle of immense complexity. Narrowing their focus to a single matter, the rival innkeeper, they slowly pieced together the totality of that scheme.

“Here’s the start,” Oscar said, tapping one finger on the open page of the church records. “This has to be it. The innkeeper Berolt was ordered to double his tithes.”

“On what charge?” Wamba asked, taking quick notes on a spare scrap of parchment.

“The ‘sufferance of impious acts’ on his property,” Oscar snorted. “That’s rich.”

“He didn’t go without a fight. Your friend Morris is next.” Wamba brushed the tip of his quill across his chin as he read the records from Brix’s tribunal.

“Berolt accused him?”

“He made an official complaint. The soldiers seized Morris on the road. He was tried and punished, but Fuller is never mentioned.”

“He’s here, though,” Oscar pointed to the second book. “He made a donation of wine to the abbey. Several whole casks of it.”

“Then Brix had Berolt arrested for failing to pay his royal tax,” Wamba said. “His inn was seized as redress, but there is no record of what became of it.”

“Donated to the church, in payment for the tithes,” Oscar said. “It’s right here, along with the price Fuller bought it for next to nothing.”

Wamba shook his head. “It is no wonder they have managed to escape notice for so long. Who knows how much they might have stolen, how many ruined for their greed?”

“They were clever,” Oscar conceded grudgingly, “though they might have been cleverer still to keep it from the record books entirely.”

“It a lucky thing for us that they did not.”

The inn was only the start. Over and over, the records revealed the same pattern, serial larceny disguised under the veneer of official justice. Men who had defied the brothers in some way, fought back against their tyranny, or perhaps merely stood unwittingly in the path of their ambition, were driven to ruin, imprisoned, excommunicated, ties severed between them and their families. With such proof in their hands, there was nothing left to do but confront Brix.

Farren scowled when Wamba explained their intentions to him. “Are you certain you want to challenge him so directly?”

“What is the alternative?” Wamba asked, calm despite the unusual tension between them. Oscar held his breath and his tongue.

“Take what you have learned back to London,” was Farren’s solution. “Let the king deal with it from there, officially.”

“Officially, I am empowered to make this decision,” Wamba told him, “and to delay will mean the disposal of the Adeney estate remains with him, along with the fates of all who reside upon it.”

Oscar watched Farren’s jaw tighten. “That decision can be reversed.”

“Not if the land is given over to the church,” Wamba insisted. “Can you imagine trying to reclaim such an immense patrimony once bequeathed?”

“The safety of those people is not my responsibility.”

“But it is mine,” Wamba said quietly, “and if there is a chance to prevent their suffering, I must take it.”

Farren’s glare was dark, but Oscar could see him softening, giving in to the force of Wamba’s argument. Finally, unhappily, he conceded. “Alright.”

“Thank you, Farren,” Wamba smiled, and the big soldier’s mouth turned up grudgingly in answer. He was still watchful, though, and insisted on accompanying them. Oscar decided this was for the better, when he walked out into the square and found it host to two groups of armed men, facing off across the open space.

Four of Brix’s soldiers were standing guard outside his residence, two more before the guildhall. Opposing them, the Rotherwood forces had stationed themselves in a defensive perimeter ranged around the inn and stables. Though they were making a show of casual unconcern, polishing weapons or inspecting the links of their mail, two even engaged in a friendly game of dice, the air about them was decidedly strained. Oscar looked, but could not see where the rest of Brix’s forced might have gone. Nor could he spy Bern or Steven on any of the surrounding roofs.

Oscar kept a tight grip on the strap of his satchel, which held the precious records tucked inside, as he followed Farren and Wamba across the square. The armed guard outside Brix’s door eyed their approach warily, but made no move to stop Farren when he strode up to the door and hammered a firm knock against the weathered wood.

It was opened, after a pause, by a sour little man in an ill-fitting doublet, who Oscar presumed to be the steward. “What is it?” he demanded.

“I have business with your lord,” Wamba said.

“His lordship is taking his rest at present,” the steward said coldly.

“That is unfortunate,” Wamba said, “as I am afraid the matter cannot wait. Please inform him of our arrival.”

The steward narrowed his eyes, affronted. “And who might you be?”

“Cedric,” Wamba said simply, and offered no further elaboration.

The steward sniffed, but he ushered them inside and went off to fetch Brix while they waited in the receiving hall, and giving Oscar the opportunity to peer curiously around the room. It was very fine in its appointments, more richly decorated than Rotherwood by far. The tapestries, paintings, and golden ornaments that bedecked the room were no doubt meant to intimidate visitors with their ostentation. For Oscar, they had the opposite effect, a righteous glee rising as he catalogued the vast collection of wealth on display that bore no accord with the records of Brix’s estate that were held in the royal archives.

The heavy tread of boots announced Brix’s arrival. He clumped into the room, head bare and velvet jacket only half buttoned. “Cedric,” he said, curt. “My steward informs me you have some matter to discuss with me that is so urgent you felt it necessary to disturb my afternoon repose.”

“Apologies for that, my lord,” Wamba replied, “but this conversation could not wait.”

“Interesting that you can shift yourself for your own concerns, and yet I noted that your presence was missed at mass this morning.” Brix said pointedly.

Wamba’s expression was serene. “I prefer to keep my devotions private, my lord. No insult to your fine community, or your church. It is merely my habit.”

“is that so?” Brix watched him with narrowed eyes. “I must say, our abbot found it most suspicious, in light of certain declarations you made to him at your shared supper.”

Oscar realized, with a start, that this was a threat. Whatever cordiality Brix had shown Wamba was spent, as he no doubt grew suspicious of the magistrate’s true purpose in Blackburn. Implying that Wamba might be placed under some scrutiny from the church, might be labeled a heretic, was no small thing. From the unpleasant twist to the man’s lips, it was a tactic that had worked in the past.

Wamba was immune, or appeared to be. “How apt that you bring the abbot into our conversation, for he is just the man I was hoping to discuss with you.”

“Oh?” Brix said, crossing his arms with forced nonchalance. “How so?”

“Tell me, my lord, what was the exact price of having your brother installed in Whalley?”

Abruptly, Brix reddened. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Do you not, my lord?” Wamba asked, still perfectly calm.

“What you imply is preposterous,” Brix blustered. “Would you slander my father’s name now as well as my own? How dare you come here and sling such accusations with nary a shred of proof?”

“I have no ironclad proof, true.” Wamba shrugged. “And yet, it is not such a great secret here in Blackburn, that you had a brother in childhood.”

“I had a companion, who may have met any number of fates after he left my father’s care. What should I know of it?”

“Quite a lot, if the record of your exceptional generosity toward the church in the days after the previous abbot’s death are any means by which to judge.”

“Now piety is a crime to you as well?” Brix’s agitation was growing, and he began to pace, the open sides of his jacket flapping.

“The truth is, my lord, I have no need of proof of your relation, as there is ample evidence of your collusion with the Abbot of Whalley, whosoever he may be to you.”

Brix stopped short, and turned narrowed eyes on Wamba. “What proof?”

Oscar was waiting for that. He pulled the books Father Alfred had given him from his satchel and holding them up where Brix could see them.

“What are you doing with those?” Brix shrieked, apoplectic in his sudden outrage. “You have no authority to command those records.”

“And yet,” Wamba said, “they have come into my hands, and with them warrant to say to you that you must step down at once from your post as royal magistrate.”

“Those records were stolen!” Brix bellowed. “The church will not stand for this!”

“It is not the church that need answer, my lord. They have their own authority, who I assure you will be made aware of what we have discovered. But here and now, you are the only one being held to account.”

Brix was pacing again, waving agitated hands. “This is completely improper. I acted well within the bounds of my authority.”

Wamba nodded, watching Brix calmly. “You did, my lord, and under a different ruler that might have been sufficient, but King Richard has made it my task to ensure that the people of England are receiving fair justice from all of his tribunals, and you have failed most spectacularly in that duty. On top of which, you have defrauded the crown by failing to report your newfound wealth, and that, as I am sure you are aware, comes with heavy consequences.”

“What do you mean?” Brix demanded.

“You have profited greatly from the suffering of the people you ruined. Not every wrong you have perpetrated can be repaired, but an effort will be made. I am sure you will be prepared to dedicate a portion of your personal wealth to that endeavor.”

Brix looked near to tears. “You have no right,” he croaked.

“I have every right, my lord. You seem to have forgotten, somewhere along the way, that you were charged to protect the interests of the crown above your own. It is a mistake you will now have the opportunity to rectify.”

Brix slumped, defeated though a burning coal of resentment glowed in his eyes. “What would you have me do?”

“Take a day to gather a true accounting of your estate,” Wamba said. “I will return tomorrow, and we will discuss fair remuneration for the victims of your actions.”

“And the inheritance?”

“I will see to it.”

Brix said nothing more, his eyes on the floor and fists clenching impotently at his sides.

“Until tomorrow, then, my lord,” Wamba said politely.

They left the way they had come, Brix’s butler peering at them around the corner of an open door, though he made no move to see them out.

“That was too easy,” Oscar said, once they were away and following Farren across the square once more.

“Do you think so?” Wamba asked, one brow rising in expectant challenge.

“I think he means to flee,” Oscar said darkly.

Wamba shrugged. “Let him.”

“What?” Oscar frowned at him, surprised by his apparent lack of concern.

“If he flees, his lands and property are forfeit,” Wamba explained, “and the end result is the same.”

“What about justice?” Oscar insisted.

“I cannot arrest him,” Wamba said, “though his majesty might choose to do so. If it is your hope to see him in chains, I am sorry to say you will be disappointed.”

“Could he go to the church? Would they give him sanctuary?”

“They might. Still, he would lose all of his personal wealth, along with the greater part of his freedom. It will be better for him to forfeit a portion of his ill-gotten gains, and retire peaceably on what remains. Hopefully, he will come to the same conclusion.”

“Hopefully,” Oscar echoed with a sigh, “so that we can finally be done with this place.”


	28. Chapter 28

“Are you certain we shouldn’t just take them with us?”

Oscar looked up from the scroll onto which he was carefully copying the church records, to shoot a questioning glance at Wamba, sunk up to his shoulders in cramped bath.

“Is your hand tired already?” Wamba teased. He combed his wet hair back from the fine angles of his face with his fingers, soaked to dark gold in the firelight and sleek as the otters Oscar had spotted from time to time sunning themselves along the riverbank in London.

“I’ll do anything with my hands that you want me to,” Oscar said fervently, smiling when he was rewarded with a bright laugh that crinkled the corners of Wamba’s eyes. He turned back to his scroll. “I only wondered what would happen if the abbot or one of his people destroyed the original records once they’re returned.”

“They have been witnessed now,” Wamba said, “and a copy will be considered just as valid, certainly for our purposes.”

Oscar glanced at the black sky through the open window, gauging the hour. “So long as you give me enough time to finish them.”

“Fear not. I’ll share the burden with you.” Wamba folded his knees close to his chest, preparing to stand.

“No, no,” Oscar protested, waving his free hand while his quill scratched on busily in the other. “Stay there as long as you need to. Is it too cold?”

Wamba subsided, leaning his head back on the flat edge of the wooden side. “It’s fine for me. You’ll want to warm it if you’re going to soak your back, though.”

“I’m alright,” Oscar said. “No more cramps today.”

“Are you truly healed so quickly?” Wamba picked his head up again to smile at Oscar. “Ah, the many advantages of youth. Enjoy them while you can, Oscar.”

Oscar snorted. “You’re hardly in the twilight of your life.”

“Six years can make more difference than you think. Just wait until you get to be my age. You’ll see.”

He was teasing, but Oscar considered the words anyway. Six years was longer than he had known Wamba, after all, and he could not even properly describe how very different his life was than what he had imagined for himself then.

“What is your plan for tomorrow?” he asked, turning over a crisp page.

“I think I will close the matter of the Adeney estate first,” Wamba said. “We can speak to Lord Brix once the others have been sent on their way. Then we will need to return those records to the church, and perhaps speak with this Father Alfred.”

Oscar’s hand paused mid-word. “You want to meet him?”

“I should thank him, don’t you think? At the very least?”

A knock at the door forestalled Oscar’s reply.

“Who can that be?” he wondered aloud.

Wamba returned his confused look, pale shoulders rolling in a shrug. “If it’s Rose, perhaps you can prevail upon her to bring up fresh water for you.”

Oscar laid his quill down and went to the door. He glanced over his shoulder at Wamba, making sure he was obstructing any view of the bath, and pulled the door open just wide enough to peer into the dark corridor beyond.

“Who is it?” he called.

Without warning, the door burst inward, the hard edge cracking sharply against his brow and sending him reeling. It caught him again, ramming into his ribs and throwing him back off of his feet, as an enormous man forced his way inside. A boot thumped down hard a hair’s breadth from Oscar’s ear. He flinched away.

“Oscar!” He heard the shout, faint through the shattering pain in his skull. It was followed by the gulp and spatter of a hasty exit from the bath, a reminder that Wamba was there, defenseless. Terror surged through him, and he forced his eyes to open.

The first thing he saw was the head of a mace, falling in an alarming arc toward his face. It jolted him into action, limbs scuttling him clumsily back, away from his attacker. The mace thumped heavily to the floor between his legs, long spikes burying themselves in the wood. He gaped at it, then looked up and locked eyes with one of Brix’s soldiers, still in the king’s red and snarling beneath his ratty whiskers. The soldier tugged at the mace, trying to free it, while his other hand snatched a knife from his belt, slashing at Oscar again.

Oscar hurled himself over onto his hands and scrabbled to his feet, darting for the table, though he did not know what he hoped to find there. His heart seized when he caught sight of Wamba, nude and unarmed, dodging the sword of a second soldier. He danced around the bath, trying to keep the meager barrier of the tub between them, but the soldier was fast, cornering him against the wall while Oscar watched.

Sharp pain burst suddenly across Oscar’s thigh, unforgiving spines of the mace tearing him around to face his own foe. He hardly had time to see the blade flash, before it was buried in his shoulder. All strength fled instantly from his arm, ice rushing down his veins and into his hand. Oscar screamed.

He heard Wamba shouting his name again, but he did not have time to look at him, as his legs buckled and sent him tumbling to the floor. The mace came flying toward him, wet with Oscar’s own blood. He shoved himself backward under the table, his left arm hanging useless by his side, and tucked his feet into that dubious shelter just in time to avoid having his ankle smashed. He glanced around him, searching frantically for anything at all that could be used as a weapon.

Through the legs of the chairs, his eye caught on the iron poker, resting with just its tip in the coals of the fire behind him. He lunged for it, cursing as his injured leg wobbled beneath him. He snatched the poker up, and swung it around, slamming the glowing end into the knee of the soldier above him with all the strength remaining in his one good arm.

It worked. The man fell with a shout, dropping his mace to clutch at his burned knee. Oscar did not waste a moment. He launched himself from beneath the table, landing on the soldier’s chest and shoving his knees quickly down on mail swathed arms to hold the man immobile, as Dunstan had taught him. He lifted the poker high, and brought the heavy end down with all his might on his foe’s head. The man snarled through bloodied teeth, trying to shove Oscar from atop him, so Oscar hit him again, and again, battering his face and head until, with a sickening crunch of bone, he at last fell still.

He panted hard for a moment, staring at the gory mess of the man he had felled. Then a shout snapped him back to the fight which was not yet over. As he watched, Wamba ducked a ferocious swing, diving under the second soldier’s arm to escape the deadly blow. The man was enraged by his wily victim’s continued evasions. He roared as he whirled to give chase once more. Wamba’s eyes met Oscar’s, and relief flashed briefly through the alarm. Then a booted foot drove into Wamba’s hip from behind, and he flew, landing hard on the wooden floor. Oscar heaved himself off of his attacker and toward Wamba at once, grappling for his arm and jerking his thin form behind his own body.

“Oscar!” Wamba gasped, trying to clamber back over him, to make himself the shield, but Oscar shoved him behind so that he was sheltered beneath the lip of the window. The soldier closed the distance between them in two menacing strides, sword lifting. Oscar raised the poker, swinging it around just in time to catch the blow. The power of it jarred his arm, making him cry out. Then the iron rod was snatched from his grasp when the sword caught on its hook and flung it across the room. It landed with a heavy clatter, too far away for Oscar to reach it.

He looked up, as the soldier raised the sword once more. Wamba’s arms closed tight around his shoulders, terrified breaths panting in Oscar’s ear, and he savored the feeling. At least he would die knowing he had protected the one he loved. With nothing left to do, he watched the sword, waiting for death to fall with open eyes.

A faint whistle snatched his attention away for an instant. Then he looked back, and blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Impossibly, an arrow had sprouted from the soldier’s eye. He stood, stone still, sword poised for the killing blow. Another whistle announced the arrival of a second arrow, through the open window above their heads. It embedded itself in the soldier’s chest with a meaty thump, piercing his mail as though it mere linen, followed quickly by a third. The sword dropped from his upraised arm, clattering to the floor. The heavy body toppled backward after it with a mighty crash.

Oscar stared. Behind him, grip still ferociously tight around Oscar, Wamba did the same. Oscar lifted his good hand and clutched at Wamba’s, desperate for that reassurance. They were both shaking, stunned to silence and not quite able to believe it was over.

That was how Farren found them when he barreled into the room a few moments later. His sword was bloody, his shirt torn. He quickly surveyed the chaos of the room, the two felled soldiers, and a nude Wamba with Oscar his only cover.

“Are you alright?” Farren barked.

His voice snapped Wamba from his stupor. “Oscar’s hurt,” he choked out.

“I see that,” Farren said, eyeing the knife still protruding from Oscar’s shoulder. “Can you hold on, lad?”

“Yes," Oscar said at once, ignoring Wamba’s sound of protest. “What’s happening?”

“It was an ambush,” Farren said, his face grim. “They came for my men in their beds. If not for your friend the stable boy, they would have been massacred.”

That was when Oscar noticed a white blonde head peeking around the edge of the door. “Morris!”

The boy shuffled awkwardly into the room, eyes on the floor, though he darted furtive glances at Oscar and Wamba’s odd embrace. Oscar could not find the strength to move, so he collapsed back further against Wamba, obscuring him from view as much as possible.

“Are they still fighting?” Wamba asked, his arms tightening once more, and Oscar realized that he could indeed hear the clamor of shouting and clashing metal filtering up from the ground below the window.

“Yes,” Farren replied, glowering at the man Oscar had beaten with the poker.

“Do they need your help?”

Oscar jumped as Farren shoved his sword down, with a vicious twist, into the prone soldier’s chest. The man gave a gurgle, and subsided, and Oscar was amazed at the relief that washed through him, that he had not been the one to take that life.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Farren growled. “They can handle themselves.”

Wamba’s laugh was thin and weak. “I am relieved to hear it.”

Oscar’s leg was throbbing dully now. His arm was terrifyingly numb, but he fought to keep calm. He reached up, cautiously feeling around the edges of the blade where it was embedded in his flesh. The feeling was increasingly distressing. He took a deep breath and wrapped his hand gingerly around the handle, bracing himself to tug it free.

“Wait,” Wamba said softly. His cool fingers closed about Oscar’s, holding him still. “We need something to stanch the bleeding first.”

Just the thought made Oscar faintly queasy. Wamba inched out from between him and the wall, lowering him carefully to his back and kneeling at his side. Oscar fell to the floor with a groan, straightening his legs. He was distracted for a moment by Morris, staring at Wamba now, at the scars that were on full display. Oscar blew out a curse, annoyed with himself for forgetting, but Farren had the matter in hand. He snatched a blanket from the bed to drape over Wamba’s body.

“Is there a physician in the town?” Wamba asked Morris.

The boy nodded, eyes jumping between Oscar and Wamba.

“Could you fetch him for us?”

Morris scuttled away. Wamba's eyes, meanwhile, never left Oscar's, and Oscar stared back at him, drinking in the sight of him whole and unharmed, while gentle hands stroked his hair back from his face.

“That’s a nasty bump on your head,” Wamba murmured softly.

Oscar laughed weakly, remembering the first time he heard those words. “You could kiss it better,” he offered.

He swallowed, throat tightening, when Wamba took his face between tender hands and leaned down to place the lightest of kisses upon his aching brow.

“You were very brave,” Wamba whispered, and brushed his cheek against Oscar’s, nuzzling gently. "I'm sorry I put you in danger."

"I'm exactly where I want to be," Oscar said firmly. He closed his eyes, focusing on that feeling rather than the pain throbbing through his leg and, increasingly, burning hot down his arm.

“You should dress before the physician gets here,” Farren rumbled, breaking the spell that had fallen over them.

Wamba kissed Oscar’s cheek as he pulled away. Oscar was cold and frightened without him, but he bit his tongue, and waited for Morris to return. The first clatter of footsteps in the corridor made him lift his head to look, but it was only one of the Rotherwood men, blood spattered and serious.

“Is it done?” Farren asked.

“Yes.”

“Any casualties?”

“None of ours,” the man reported. “We kept two of their soldiers alive, to tell us who gave the order.”

“It was Lord Brix,” Wamba said, pulling on his boots.

“He will regret it,” Farren growled.

“You should go and arrest him,” Wamba said, “before he has a chance to flee. The danger here has passed.”

“I told you it was too easy,” Oscar interjected from the floor.

Wamba was back at his side again a moment later, his hand closing over Oscar’s. “You did," he said, "and now you will have your wish to see him in chains after all.”

“I would rather have two working arms,” Oscar grumbled.

“You will be back to full strength in no time at all,” Wamba assured him, with a smile that was only a little forced. “That magic youth, remember?”

“Get these corpses out of here,” Farren ordered his man. “There are two in the next room as well.”

He clumped off purposefully into the corridor. Oscar stared at the ceiling, and tried keep his breathing steady.

By the time Morris returned with the physician, the dead men had been removed and a sweat had broken out on Oscar’s brow. He clutched Wamba’s hand in a punishingly tight grip when the blade in his shoulder was finally drawn free. He gasped in short breaths while fiery pain flared in savage pulses along his arm. He concentrated on Wamba’s pale face while the wound was sewn closed, trying very hard to ignore the sickening pinch and tug of the coarse thread dragging through his flesh. His arm was bound tight across his chest in a linen sling, and his thigh was cleaned and bandaged as well.

The fog of pain had dulled his senses by the time he was lifted from the floor and laid on the bed. A cup of something bitter was poured carefully down his throat, the pillow rose to meet him, and then he knew no more.


	29. Chapter 29

Recovering, Oscar had discovered, was stupendously boring.

Unable to bear the monotonous view of the ceiling any longer, he took a deep breath and levered himself up on his good arm, scooting his rump back to sit up in the bed. He wrestled his pillow up behind him, shoving it against the headboard to cushion his back. His injured shoulder gave a sharp twinge, protesting the contortion. He cursed, and closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to pass. It ebbed slowly away, until he was able to slump back against the pillow, adjusting his sling gingerly so his forearm lay across his belly, the weight safely suspended.

This simple task finally accomplished, Oscar looked around the empty room, and sighed. He did not blame Wamba for leaving him behind. There was little choice, after all, but he could not help the gnawing annoyance at his own uselessness. If nothing else, he wanted to be present to see Brix humbled at last. That now seemed unlikely. His feet twitched restlessly beneath the blanket, the only safe outlet for his frustration.

Someone had put the room to order while he slept, and scrubbed the blood from the floor, though rosy stains remained, stark in the late morning light. Oscar wondered which of those ghostly pools of blood might be his own. He shuddered, recalling the sharp burn of the knife as it sliced into his flesh. He pressed his good hand gingerly over the bandage that swathed his shoulder, testing the tenderness of the wound itself. He still did not know how dire the injury was, whether he would regain full use of his arm. He decided to be grateful that it was his left, at least, and not the more important right.

The church records sat on the table, stacked neatly beside Oscar’s scrolls and materials that had survived the fight. They presented a heartening possibility, so Oscar pushed the blankets away from his legs. His right thigh was bound completely in linen bandages, rusty stains sullying the white cloth where blood had soaked them through. The gouges from the mace throbbed hotly, but he was able to lift his leg and swing it over the side of the bed easily enough. Encouraged, he lowered his feet to the floor, easing his weight down onto his legs. They held.

“Thank all the saints for that,” he muttered to himself, smiling. Trousers were his next order of business, quickly accomplished with the help of the bed to prop him up. He was fumbling with his laces, trying to devise some way to tie them with only one hand, when the door opened and Rose bustled into the room with a tray in her hands.

Oscar squawked, clutching his trousers hastily closed. “What are you doing barging in like that?”

“I thought you would be sleeping!” she protested. “Let me help you.” She set her tray down on the table and batted his hand away from his laces, doing them up herself with a few quick tugs. He stared at the wall over her shoulder, and tried very hard not to blush.

“Were you the one who cleaned the room?” he asked.

“No. I only found out what happened this morning.” She looked up, her brown eyes sad. “I can’t believe Lord Brix would go so far as to try to assassinate your magistrate. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

Oscar shrugged. “We survived.” In the end, it was the most important thing.

“I brought you some breakfast,” Rose said. “The physician said you should eat. He’ll be back to examine you later.”

“I can’t stay in here any longer,” Oscar told her. “I’m going to go mad. Help me downstairs, will you?”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be resting?”

“I can’t laze about in bed while there’s work to be done,” he grumbled, betraying his impatience.

“If you’re certain.”

Rose helped him pack up the records and scrolls in his satchel, then pull a tunic over his head, carefully threading his good arm through the sleeve, while the other hung limp and empty at his side. She slung his arm over her shoulder and wrapped hers around his waist, supporting him as they made their slow way down the stairs.

“I heard Lord Brix is going to be taken to London,” she said, as they lurched down onto the first step.

“Really?” Oscar was surprised that word had spread so quickly.

“He was put in the cells last night, and the garrison locked up tight.”

“Farren won’t risk any more traitors,” Oscar said, taking another shaky step down.

Rose heaved out a sigh, heavy enough that it swayed Oscar’s precarious balance. “They weren’t bad people you know.”

“I hate to disagree with you when you could drop me down these stairs,” Oscar said, “but they attacked us without any warning.”

“They were like us,” she said, tightening her grip on Oscar’s waist. “They didn’t have anything. He bought their loyalty with gold, and authority. I can’t blame them for wanting to improve their lot, to be among the powerful for once.”

Oscar said nothing. He had not spared a thought for the soldiers that had died, beyond the relief that they were defeated. To him, they were no more than a weapon wielded by Brix, victory over them something to be celebrated, but Blackburn was their home as much as it was Rose’s. They were part of this community, and no doubt there were loved ones who had waited for them to return, and whose worst fears were now realized. Oscar could not regret their failure, but he did wish that the entire situation could have been avoided. It was one more reason to despise Brix.

Rose helped him settle in a sturdy chair by the fire, and brought him his breakfast while he spread his work out before him and continued where he had left off. He did not know how long he sat there, focused on the careful strokes of his quill, before he looked up and found a welcome face peering at him across the table.

“Morris!” he grinned. “The hero of the hour.”

Morris ducked his head quickly, but he lifted it again with a shy smile for Oscar.

“It’s a lucky thing you were still here last night.”

Morris bit his lip, then opened his mouth and whispered, “I heard them.”

The boy’s voice was light and hesitant, but he had finally spoken. Astonished, Oscar laughed. “If not for you they might have killed me, and Cedric. Thank you for that.”

Morris chewed on his lip a moment longer, watching Oscar cautiously.

“What is it?” Oscar prompted.

Morris looked away. “He has scars. Like me.”

Oscar’s levity abruptly fell away. “He does,” he said quietly, “though not many know about them. It would be a great favor to us both if you would keep that knowledge to yourself.”

“Will he fix it?”

“Fix what? Blackburn?” Oscar asked, frowning.

Morris nodded.

“He’s going to do his best. I can promise you that.”

The smile returned, content. All of the hostility and resentment in Morris for Wamba had fled, banished by the single revelation that they had a history of cruelty in common. Oscar’s heart ached faintly for Morris and all that he had endured.

“Why did you stay here?” He had wondered from the start, though he had kept it to himself. “Isn’t there anywhere else you could have gone where they would not have treated you so badly?”

Morris shook his head. “My mother,” he whispered.

“His mother is sick,” said Rose, plunking a fresh mug of cider down in front of Oscar. “They’ve no other family, so Morris earns the money for her care.”

“Oh,” Oscar said. He smiled at Morris, humbled by the revelation. “It sounds like you’ve been a hero for longer than I realized.”

“That he has,” Rose agreed.

A sudden wash of daylight drew their attention to the door. Wamba entered first, and Oscar was surprised to see Lord Percival following close behind.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Wamba asked, worried eyes scanning Oscar’s form as he approached the corner Oscar had occupied.

Morris jumped from his seat at once, shuffling back until his shoulders touched the wall beside the hearth. Rose curtsied and scurried back to the bar to fill two more mugs.

“I’m fine,” Oscar reassured Wamba with a smile, submitting to the light hand that came to rest on his head, thumb brushing over the knot on his brow.

“You should let the physician be the judge of that,” Wamba admonished him gently.

“I got bored,” Oscar admitted, and was pleased when Wamba smiled at last.

“Of course you did,” he chuckled.

“Did you put everything to rest?” he asked, glancing over Wamba’s shoulder at Percival.

“Nearly,” Wamba said, letting his hand fall back to his side. “Lord Percival has agreed to take on the Adeney estate. I think the people there will be happy to hear it.”

Oscar nodded to the noble, trusting that his injury would excuse him from the proper demonstrations of respect.

“And,” Wamba continued, “I’ve asked another more personal favor of him as well. One I hope will be well received.”

He looked at Morris. The boy watched him, alert but unafraid.

“I did not think such bravery as you showed should go unrewarded. There is a woman in York, known to a good friend of mine, who I think might be able to help you stand straight again.”

Morris stiffened, his eyes widening. He glanced between Wamba and Oscar, uncertain.

“I’m happy to take you to York with me, lad,” Percival said, smiling kindly at Morris. “You’ll have work, and a place to sleep.”

“His mother,” Oscar said at once. “She’s ill, and he takes care of her.”

Percival nodded. “That is no obstacle. She is equally welcome.”

“Perhaps she might benefit from the same care I hope will aid you,” Wamba offered.

“What do you say, Morris?” Oscar asked, giving the boy an encouraging grin.

Morris swallowed. He visibly steeled himself, looked Wamba in the eye and said, “Thank you.”

Wamba smiled. “No, Morris,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

Oscar reached out and took his hand, not caring who might see. He was so proud of Wamba in that moment, he could not but show it, clasping sensitive fingers gently between his own and gladly accepting the answering press.

Percival took Morris to discuss the details of their new arrangement, and Wamba fell into the empty seat. “We still need to return those to the church before we leave,” he said, nodding to the books in front of Oscar.

“I’m nearly done,” Oscar told him. “Only a few more pages.”

“Fine work,” Wamba said, “though I still wish you had not strained yourself coming down here.”

“I’ll never recover my strength if I lay about all day,” Oscar reasoned.

“There is a time for testing those limits, and a time for healing. It is less than a day since you were wounded.”

Oscar sighed, realizing that he would have to concede in this matter, for the sake of Wamba’s nerves if nothing else. “I promise I’ll do as the physician says.”

“Thank you,” Wamba said. “Once we return to Rotherwood, you will have a chance to recuperate in peace.”

“Records first,” Oscar reminded him. “You’re not going without me.”

“You just said you would cease overtaxing yourself.” The corner of Wamba’s mouth dipped in a frown.

“I said I would do as the physician says,” Oscar said, “and he is not yet here.”

“Your leg,” Wamba started.

“Is merely scratched.”

“I saw the wound, Oscar,” Wamba reminded him, exasperated.

“It carried me down the stairs. I can venture as far as the church.”

As it was, he was perhaps too optimistic about his own strength. Crossing the square was more taxing than he had anticipated, and he was sweating by the time they reached the church, his injured leg dragging in a pronounced limp. Wamba shot him worried glances, but he pressed on, gulping the cool air of the church down gratefully.

Inside, they found a curious sight. Father Alfred was repairing a pew, a hammer and awl balanced on his knee and nails scattered about him on the floor.

“Is there no member of your congregation who could see to that for you?” Wamba asked.

The priest looked up, taking in Oscar quickly before returning to Wamba. “My father was a carpenter,” he said. “I learned the trade, before I decided to join the church, and I feel that it is better to do for ourselves, where we are able, rather than place those burdens on others.”

Wamba’s expression softened, surprised. Oscar smiled.

“We came to return your records,” he said, nodding to the books in Wamba’s hand.

“Ah, yes,” Father Alfred said. He put his tools aside and stood. “Thank you. I hope you found them useful.” He held out a hand, and Wamba placed the records in them, though he did not release them.

He looked the priest in the eye, and said, “We could not have stopped him without these. You did the right thing.”

Father Alfred’s smile was serene. “There is much corruption in this world. Many abuses were inflicted upon these people. I am honored that God chose me to have this small part in remedying it.”

Wamba’s gaze sharpened, and he released the books at last. “Would you be willing to offer testimony of those abuses? Before the king?”

It was no small thing he asked. For a priest to betray the hierarchy of the church, to throw his lot in with a secular power, was nearly unheard of. It was a shock, therefore, when Father Alfred nodded, very slowly. “I think I would,” he said, “if it would serve God’s plan to do so, as it was in his plan for us to meet this way.”

Wamba blinked. “You think God sent me?”

“You have done a great good here,” Father Alfred said. “However it came to pass, know that my faith that was battered is fully restored, and I am grateful.”

“Thank you, father.” Wamba said, and offered his hand.

Father Alfred took it, with a knowing smile. “And you? Has your faith been restored?”

Wamba laughed, soft and peaceful. “It’s a start, father. It’s a start.”


	30. Chapter 30

It was two days later that Oscar was finally deemed fit enough to travel.

He sat on the bed and watched Wamba pack, slowly rotating his shoulder. It was growing stronger by the day, the pull of torn muscle fading. It gave Oscar hope that he might yet make a full recovery, though he was forbidden from removing the sling for another week. His empty sleeve was tied in a knot at the shoulder, to keep the dangling end from causing a nuisance.

“Is that the last?” Wamba asked, tugging the strap closed on a plump leather pack.

Oscar looked around the room, searching for odds and ends that might have been missed. “I think so.”

He pushed himself to his feet and reached for one of the packs. It was quickly snatched from his grasp.

“You see to getting yourself down to the yard,” Wamba instructed him. “Let me worry about the rest.”

“You can’t take all of these own your own,” Oscar protested.

“That’s why I’ve arranged for assistance,” Wamba said, pulling open the door. “Good morning, Morris.”

“Morning,” Morris muttered, avoiding Wamba’s eyes as he shuffled past him into the room. He was still skittish, though the fact that he had answered at all was remarkable enough.

“Got your own things packed already?” Oscar asked the boy.

Morris glanced up at him. “Yes.”

“We’ll travel together as far as Wakefield,” Wamba said. He took two satchels, letting Morris shoulder the rest.

“And then?” Oscar asked.

“Then Morris and his mother will continue on to York with Lord Percival.”

“What about Brix?”

“Farren will see us to Rotherwood,” Wamba said, leading the way downstairs, “then take him on to London. The king will deal with him there.”

The square was bustling with people making preparations to depart, Percival’s liveried servants mixed in with Rotherwood’s soldiers and at least a dozen snorting, stamping horses. At the very back of the train, Oscar noted two small carts beside the stables, hitched to a pair of placid mules. One held an old woman, huddled in a nest of blankets so only her gaunt, white face was visible. Oscar decided this must be Morris’s mother. The passengers of the other cart were of much greater interest.

Oscar could help not the hot satisfaction that swelled inside him at the sight of Brix in chains. The noble’s fine doublet was torn and grimed with dirt, and a stark bruise stood out on his cheek. Oscar wished he could have been present to see Farren’s fist make it, but watching Brix stare fixedly at his feet, thoroughly humbled, was more than compensation enough. The two surviving soldiers were shackled to the cart beside him. They had been stripped of their royal uniforms, and wore plain woolen shirts.

Oscar allowed himself one moment to enjoy the sight, before he set himself to the challenge of mounting his horse without making a fool of himself. He approached the beast with growing trepidation, reaching up with his good hand to take a grip on the pommel of the saddle. He took a breath, and hitched his leg up, aiming to thread his toe into the stirrup. He missed, and his foot thumped back to the ground, jarring his bones. He cursed, and gathered himself to try again.

“Hold there, lad,” a stern voice said into his ear.

Oscar jumped and looked back over his shoulder. It was Locksley’s man Bern, his bow slung across his broad chest along with his pack.

“Will you never tire of scaring the wits out of me?”

He detected the distinct edge of a smirk in the inscrutable woodman’s expression.

“I’ll help you up,” Bern said. He laced his hands together to form a step for Oscar, giving him an encouraging nod. Oscar used his good arm to support him while he swung his right leg over the horse’s rump and dropped into the saddle at last. Bern stepped back once he was settled, brushing his hands together and scrutinizing Oscar’s seat. “Secure enough, are you?”

“For now,” Oscar said. “Thanks for that.”

Bern nodded, and turned.

“Wait,” Oscar called.

Bern paused, and looked at him, though Oscar was quite suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“It was you, wasn’t it? Who shot the soldier?”

“It was,” Bern said, with a curt nod.

“That’s quite an eye you have,” Oscar said. He had spent much of his forced convalescence thinking about the window, and how Bern had been able to fire three arrows dead on target from the guildhall at the far end of the square. He could not help but wonder what else Bern might have been able to see.

“Our reputation is one we have earned,” Bern said, not a boast but a simple statement.

“Yes, of course,” Oscar agreed. “Locksley said you were the best.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I only wondered if you happened to see anything besides the fight.”

“You mean did I spy a thief stealing into the church several nights past?”

Oscar barked a laugh. “That is not quite what I meant.”

Bern stepped close to Oscar’s knee, his expression very serious. “I know what you meant, lad,” he said quietly. “I’m no peeping tom. What is between you remains so.”

“Oh.” Oscar coughed, trying to ignore the creeping heat in his face. He was not ashamed of Wamba, of anything that they did together, but the idea of those private moments being witnessed made his skin crawl and his stomach squirm oddly inside him.

Bern took pity on him, walking away to help one of the soldiers lift a heavy pack onto a horse. Oscar was saved from further embarrassed musings by Rose. “Ready to be quit of us, then?” she asked, ambling to his side.

“Not you,” Oscar assured her, “though Blackburn as a whole has not been especially gentle with me.”

She laughed, patting his elbow. “You got the better of it, in the end.”

“Will you be alright here?” he asked, thinking to her employer and to the abbot, still in place and free to do as he pleased.

“Don’t worry about us,” Rose told him. “We’re strong. We’ll sort ourselves out.”

“Good luck, then,” Oscar said, “and thank you.”

“Goodbye, Oscar.”

They made slower progress than they had on the journey out, with so many more on foot and the carts to boot. Oscar would not have admitted it, but he was grateful for the less demanding pace. Wamba spent his time conversing with Percival, so Oscar relaxed into the easy sway of his horse’s gait and let his thoughts drift as they pleased. He wondered what his friends in London might be doing now. The reality of that life felt very distant somehow, and he entertained a brief pang of homesickness.

They spent the night in Wakefield, and parted ways with Percival and his party the following morning. Excluded from the preparations once more, Oscar spent a few minutes sitting with Morris on a stone wall near the stables, attempting to ease the boy’s obvious nerves.

“Lord Percival seems a good man. You’ll be happy in York, you and your mother.”

Morris nodded, staring at his shoes.

“Maybe,” Oscar continued, placing his arm around Morris’s twisted shoulders, “you’ll come to London one day. Don’t forget to find me, if you do.”

He smiled, and Morris finally returned it, shy and happy. “I will.”

“Good,” Oscar said, giving him a fond shake.

“Morris,” one of Percival’s servants called, “we’re bringing your mother out.”

Morris stumbled quickly to his feet to answer the summons. He turned, once, and gave Oscar a final wave. Oscar returned it, watching him go, until he noticed Wamba standing beside the stables, watching him in turn. He walked over to Oscar, and took a seat at his side.

“You’ve made a friend for life, I think.”

“I’ll need a few,” Oscar laughed, “to balance out the enemies.”

Wamba chuckled, soft eyes on Oscar. “I’m very proud of you, you know,” he said. “I am not sure this would have been possible without you.”

Oscar scoffed to cover the rush of abashed pleasure that bloomed through his chest. “You would have resolved everything eventually.”

“Perhaps,” Wamba said, “but I am very glad you were here, nonetheless.” He stood, and offered Oscar a hand with a smile. Oscar took it, letting Wamba help him to his feet, and used it to tug him close, daring to brush a quick kiss against his cheek.

They made straight for Rotherwood that day, and arrived just as dusk was settling over the Greenwood. Looking up at the sturdy gates, Oscar could hardly believe it had been little more than a week since they had departed, so much had happened in that brief time. He was grateful to be out of the saddle, sore and exhausted and desperately ready for a rest. It was not to be.

No sooner were their feet on the ground than a servant approached Wamba. “Lord Wilfred asked that you attend him at once in his study when you arrived.”

Oscar sighed, his mood declining rapidly, and followed Wamba through the castle to the great hall. The kitchen girls were busy laying out platters on the long tables, preparing for the evening meal. Oscar’s stomach growled at the enticing scents wafting through the air, but he ignored it and carried on toward the lord’s private study in the back.

Wamba’s knock was met at once with a curt, “Enter.”

Ivanhoe was concentrating on some of map spread across his table, but he stood when saw Wamba. “You’ve arrived!”

“We have,” Wamba nodded with a smile.

“All your business was concluded smoothly, I trust?”

“We reached a satisfactory resolution,” Wamba reported, “though there were a few minor mishaps.”

Ivanhoe noticed at Oscar then, and his eyes widened. “Goodness. What happened to you?”

Irritated by his joviality, Oscar declined to respond.

“Oscar’s earned his first battle wound,” Wamba said instead.

Ivanhoe chuckled. “I trust the other fellow is in worse health?”

“Felled with a poker,” Wamba said, with a warm smile for Oscar.

“Excellent,” Ivanhoe said, clapping Oscar on the shoulder. Feeling surlier by the moment, Oscar scowled, and reminded himself repeatedly that he had promised to be polite to the knight.

“We have a few prisoners to hold here overnight, if you don’t mind. Farren will take them on to London tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Ivanhoe said. “All around, it sounds like this was no simple mediation after all.”

“It turned out to be more involved than we anticipated,” Wamba told him, “but I feel we have reached the best possible conclusion, for Blackburn and for the Adeney estate.” He recounted the tale briefly, making much of Oscar’s contribution, while Ivanhoe looked more impressed by the moment.

“Wonderful,” he smiled. “I knew you would see it done properly. There is no better man for the job.”

Wamba smiled, pleased at the praise, and Oscar’s resentment abruptly boiled over. He scoffed, and muttered, “If you respect him so much, why do you not trust him enough to free him?”

Ivanhoe stopped still, and his smile collapsed into a dark frown. “What did you say?”

Wamba stared at Oscar for one appalled moment, before he turned to Ivanhoe. “My lord, he did not mean…”

Ivanhoe raised a hand, and Wamba immediately fell silent. The knight’s sharp gaze bored into Oscar. “Tell me what you said.”

Oscar knew he was on dangerous ground. Indeed, he might be risking everything to challenge the knight so. But he was tired of it. Tired of watching Wamba fawn after scraps of approval while being treated like some trained animal, with Oscar his minder. Tired of watching him negotiate the delicate balance of accomplishing what was asked of him without overstepping his bounds. Tired of listening to him give Ivanhoe the credit for all he had achieved. Tired of watching him remind himself over and over that he was less. Less than Ivanhoe, certainly, but also less than Oscar, than Farren, than the scheming, despicable likes of Brix and Avery. He was simply tired.

So he met Ivanhoe's glare with one of his own and spat, “You heard me. What does he have to do to earn his freedom from you? How long will you insist on keeping him less than a man? What did he do to you to deserve that?”

“Oscar,” Wamba tried again, thin and desperate, but Ivanhoe rounded on him then, seizing his shoulders in a fierce grip. Wamba stiffened, eyes wide and frightened as he looked up at his master.

“What nonsense is this?” Ivanhoe demanded.

“My lord,” Wamba whispered, “I…”

Oscar clenched his jaw and his fist, preparing to defend him at any cost.

“My father never freed you?”

Oscar blinked. Wamba’s mouth dropped open, stunned.

“He didn’t,” Ivanhoe breathed. “He never freed you.”

He released Wamba, turned and planted his fist in the wooden face of his desk with a resounding crack. Wamba flinched.

“My lord,” he whispered to Ivanhoe’s back, “I thought you knew.”

“Of course I did not know!” Ivanhoe roared, whirling to face him once more.

“But,” Wamba said hesitantly, “you agreed to the king’s terms for my service. You signed the indenture.”

Ivanhoe growled, rubbing at his brow. “I didn’t read it! You said you were satisfied with the arrangements.”

“I was,” Wamba insisted. “I am.”

“My God,” Ivanhoe cursed, lifting his eyes to the ceiling, “I’ve been taking others to task for keeping their thralls, while all the while you’ve been living as my slave. Why did you never say anything?”

“It was not my place,” Wamba said quietly, “and truly, my lord, I have no complaints.”

Ivanhoe's hand sliced the air. “None of that. We will remedy this at once.” He stalked to the door, opening it so sharply he frightened the page waiting in the corridor. “Sam, go and fetch my sword. Bring it to the hall.”

“Wilfred,” Wamba tried again. Ivanhoe spun back, looking him up and down.

“At least he had the sense not to keep you collared. No credit to him for taking the damned thing off. Come on.” The knight gripped Wamba’s arm in one hand, sweeping out the door. Shaking off his shock, Oscar scurried after them.

The hall was crowded now, all of Rotherwood gathered for the meal. They fell silent when Ivanhoe dragged Wamba into the center of the hall without warning or explanation. Oscar hung back beside the high table, glancing at the Lady Rowena, who watched the spectacle with a curious tilt to her fine brow. Ivanhoe stopped just before the dais, glowering around the room while Wamba watched the ground in silence.

Then Sam dashed through the door, the knight's sword in his hand. Ivanhoe took it from him, and quickly bared the blade, throwing the sheath aside. A surprised murmur raced through the hall.

Ivanhoe's eyes swept the room, warning the assembled to silence with a glance. He let the quiet hang for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was grave. “The matter I wish to address is one that I trust will be as unforeseen to all of you as it was to me. I have just now learned that Wamba, whom I believed freed by my father years ago, is even to this day thrall to Rotherwood and to myself.”

A new chorus of whispers rustled through the hall. It was clear from their expressions, and their exclamations, that these people had all believed that Cedric must have granted Wamba his freedom, as Ivanhoe had.

Ivanhoe allowed them to take this revelation in, then continued. “Therefore, I invite you all to bear witness.” He nodded to Wamba, who had yet to raise his eyes. “Kneel.”

Wamba sank at once to the stones at Ivanhoe’s feet. A knot formed in Oscar’s throat as he watched Wamba humble himself before his master. It was not the bended knee he had offered Rowena, but a full obeisance, both palms flat to the stone floor and his head bowed low, and Oscar suddenly understood exactly how grave a thing this was. Wamba’s life, never his own, would soon be handed into his control, but first he offered his final fealty to his lord.

Ivanhoe extended his hand, that which bore his signet, and Wamba leaned forward to press his lips to the seal of Rotherwood. When he pulled away, he fell very still. Oscar saw why a moment later, when Ivanhoe lifted his sword and laid the sharp edge of the blade against Wamba’s neck. It was no tap as a knighting, but a threat and a reminder that his life was at the mercy of his master. Oscar’s heart began to race. He could only imagine how it must be for Wamba.

“Wamba,” Ivanhoe intoned, with a tenderness at odds with the weapon he pressed to the slave’s throat, “you were not born to Rotherwood, but you have served her with a greater loyalty and at greater cost than any who were hers by birth. Now, you are the last. It is with gratitude and great esteem that I release you from those bonds, and invite you to take your place among us as a free man, with all the status you deserve.” One final phrase, pronounced in a language that was strange and yet somehow familiar to Oscar’s ear, and Ivanhoe pulled the sword from Wamba’s skin, handing it off to Sam once more.

When he offered his hand again, it was palm up. Wamba took it, and was pulled to his feet, dazed and visibly shaking. Oscar was about to step forward and go to him, when Ivanhoe lifted his hand and tilted Wamba’s face up to him with a single finger. He laid one kiss on Wamba’s brow, and the second, chaste and gentle, on his mouth.

Startled, Oscar looked to Rowena. There was no surprise in her expression, nor any displeasure. Her smile was wide and her eyes wet.

Ivanhoe stepped back, and smiled at Wamba. “Thank you, my friend, for all you have done.” He turned, and shouted to the hall, “Now, let us celebrate!”

Rotherwood roared.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

The door had barely closed behind them before Wamba was on him. He pulled Oscar down with trembling hands on his face to peck quick, desperate kisses against his mouth, shaking and overcome. Oscar did his best to return the flurry, despite the immense grin that stretched his lips, irrepressible product of the giddy joy frothing madly inside him.

"You," Wamba gasped, but his eloquence had abandoned him, and he could not find words to continue. He stared at Oscar with wide, wondering eyes.

Oscar pressed his brow tight to Wamba’s. "Free,” he laughed. “Free. You're free."

Wamba moaned, low and plaintive, and lunged for Oscar’s lips again, the familiar shape of him pressed warm and yearning against Oscar's body. Oscar wrapped his good arm tight around his lover’s narrow waist and clasped him close, opening his mouth in an unmistakable invitation to deepen the kiss. Wamba’s hands clutched the back of his head as he chased Oscar’s tongue, dragging it into his own mouth with insistent sucks. His fervor sent Oscar’s blood dashing madly through his veins, the speed of his mounting arousal making his head spin.

Wamba had maintained his composure well throughout the long meal, accepting the hearty congratulations offered from all sides despite the shivering tension in his limbs, the faint glaze to his expression. Now, those crumbling walls of calm were tumbled down at last, and his inhibitions toppled with them, for he cleaved to his lover with an urgency that Oscar had never known from him. It was intoxicating, and also terrifying, to see him stripped so raw.

He clutched Wamba tighter still, fingers curved close about the slope of his ribs, and braced his back against the door, making of himself a bastion upon which Wamba could spend the tempest of his emotions. He gave Wamba all that he desired, ceding his strength and his kiss, until his lungs burned and lights danced behind his eyelids, but he did not break away.

Slowly, gradually, the devouring kiss gentled, the clenched hands softened to a tender hold, until Wamba was able to draw back at last. He hid his face in Oscar’s neck, panting hot and fast against his throat.

Oscar nosed at the soft hollow beneath Wamba’s ear. “I like this change in you."

Wamba breathless laugh vibrated through his chest. He pulled away far enough to look up at Oscar, the teasing quirk that Oscar adored tilting his lips. “You’ve put yourself out of a job, you realize.”

Oscar licked at the corner of that little smirk. “You still need looking after, don’t you?” He slid his leg between Wamba’s thighs, pressing up until he could tease the line of his eager cock through his trousers.

Wamba clutched at his shoulders, and made a sound trapped somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “Quite a lot of looking after, yes,” he gasped, “now that you mention it.”

“Perhaps you’ll hire a whole host of servants to do the job better than I can.”

“Absolutely not!” Wamba said, with the most convincing glare he could muster while riding Oscar’s thigh with tiny jerks of his hips.

“Why not? You’ll have the coin.”

“Coin,” Wamba breathed, his hips falling still and his face pale. “What am I going to do with coin?”

Oscar wondered if the thought had actually not occurred to him until that moment, what freedom meant. “That’s the beauty of money,” he said gently. “You can trade it for whatever you want.”

Wamba’s fingers crept up Oscar’s shoulders, threading into his hair again. “I only want you,” he confided softly.

Oscar’s heart kicked against his ribs, a throb of emotion so intense it threatened to choke him. “Me you can have for nothing,” he rasped, and bent his head for another kiss.

It was slow and gentle this time, their tongues playing in a tender thrust and parry. While not the hungry kiss of before, it was just as wrenching for the delicate sweetness, as Wamba dipped his tongue into Oscar’s mouth, testing the limits of what Oscar would give him. Oscar moaned softly into the kiss, letting Wamba hear how very much he approved.

When they broke apart at last, he stared into Wamba’s eyes, close enough that he could make out the minute variations in the rich brown of his irises. "You outrank me now," he said, "king's magistrate. Let me see it."

It was as close as he had ever come to offering, to asking whether Wamba had any interest in turning the tables and claiming Oscar as he had been claimed. The thought was huge, and a little frightening, but Oscar was as good as his word. He licked his lips and waited to see what Wamba wanted from him.

Wamba did not speak. His eyes were very soft as he stepped away and pulled Oscar after him by the hand, leading him to the bed. He carefully lifted Oscar's tunic, navigating it around the sling that still bound Oscar’s injured arm across his chest. He set the garment aside, and pressed a soft kiss to Oscar’s lips. Then, hands trailing after him, he slid to his knees.

Oscar blew out a shaky breath, and lifted his feet to let Wamba slide off his boots, his trousers, until he was bare, but Wamba still did not rise. Oscar looked down at him, and Wamba held his gaze while he ran his hands up Oscar’s thighs, brushing carefully over the bandages where they bound his healing wounds. His cock stood at full attention, jutting somewhat rudely, he thought, toward Wamba.

Wamba did not seem to mind. He took Oscar’s sex in one gentle hand, and leaned forward to nuzzle it with his cheek. Then his mouth opened, and he turned his head to press slow, wet kisses along the whole length. Oscar held his breath, and gathered every last scrap of his control to keep from spilling himself at once like a callow boy, while pleasure shivered out in waves across his skin.

Wamba pulled away for a moment, contemplating the flesh in his hand. Oscar watched Wamba swallow, and did the same. They stayed that way, suspended for one tense moment, while Oscar wondered whether Wamba would actually do it.

He did. In one smooth bob, he took Oscar to the root in the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. Every hair on Oscar's body stood on end. His knees nearly buckled, but he managed to take a grip on the edge of the mattress behind him in time to keep from collapsing. He locked his knees and braced himself beneath the tender onslaught. Wamba moved with practiced ease, though Oscar did not care to contemplate where or how those lessons might have been learned. He had very little attention to devote to anything but the hot pressure surrounding him, the torturous drag of a clever tongue along sensitive skin. His head spun, his chest heaved, and a small eternity passed before the unmistakable sensation of imminent climax crept tingling up his spine.

That was the moment that Wamba chose to pull away. Watching that elusive pleasure retreat into the distance once more, Oscar whined. Wamba patted his hip gently. “Just a little patience,” he murmured, his voice rough and gorgeous to Oscar’s ears.

He followed easily when Wamba stood and helped him up onto the bed, his legs dangling toward the floor. He adjusted his arm in its sling and watched Wamba walk to the table, where someone had been kind enough to deposit the packs that Oscar had forgotten about in light of more important matters.

Wamba quickly found what he was looking for. He carried the oil back with him to the bed, setting the stoppered bottle down beside Oscar, whose heart lurched into an anxious canter. His disquiet lasted only a moment, and then he was distracted as Wamba began to disrobe, his movements quick and efficient. Once he was nude, he urged Oscar down with a hand on his chest, so that he fell back onto the bed, and climbed up catlike after him, his limbs a cage around Oscar, dark eyes intent. Oscar could only stare up at him, mesmerized. Despite having asked for it, he did not quite know what to do with this version of his lover. But the smile on that beloved face was familiar, soft and affectionate, and Oscar’s doubts faded. He knew Wamba. Loved him. There was no need to fear.

So he reached up instead, and pulled Wamba down for a kiss. Wamba went easily, and settled his hips down atop Oscar’s, so that Oscar’s cock was nestled tantalizingly in the soft, hot hollow between his legs. Oscar's hips jerked of their own volition. Wamba laughed into the kiss, and rocked back against him once, though judging by the flush that spread from his cheeks down to his chest, he was nearly as desperate.

He proved it when he wasted no more time reaching for the oil. Oscar watched as he poured out a healthy measure into his palm, before setting the bottle aside. He rubbed his hands together, warming the oil, and lifted up away from Oscar, moving with purpose now. Oscar closed his eyes and braced himself, waiting for the direction to open his legs, perhaps to turn. He did not know which would be easier.

He was so consumed by that thought that he did not realize at first what was happening. Suddenly, Wamba’s hands were back on him, slick on his chest, and hot pressure was closing about his cock, as he was welcomed into the familiar embrace of Wamba’s body. Oscar opened his eyes, and found Wamba smirking at him, while he let his weight carry him down to rest on Oscar’s hips once more. Oscar groaned, his head falling back as sweet bliss tripped along his spine and down his limbs, pleasure filling up all the places where anxiety had taken hold. He let the sensation wash over him, the way their bodies fit so perfectly this way, each time a homecoming, though it was a restless sort of peace, coupled with the need to move, to chase the final promise of that fulfillment where they were both consumed by incandescent joy.

Oscar gasped at the brush of soft lips on his shoulder, just beside the healing scar. He watched Wamba place worshipful kisses across his chest, then push himself up, sitting tall. It was a view of him Oscar had never seen, staring up the lean length of his torso. He was beautiful, with his hair a firelit halo around his face and a soft smile gracing his lips. He braced his hands on Oscar's ribs and curled his spine in a sinuous undulation, muscles clasping Oscar tight.

Oscar cursed and tried to thrust up to meet him, but with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed and Wamba’s weight pinning him, he could find no purchase. By design, it seemed, he was at his lover's mercy. Luckily for him, Wamba was in a generous mood. He repeated the motion, building to a steady pace that quickly had Oscar rushing toward the edge of that bluff once more. Through it, he had the sense to worry that he might leave his lover behind. So he did the only thing he could. He seized Wamba's cock in his hand and stroked him in time with the rise and fall of his body, with the little twist that he knew drove Wamba mad. Wamba's gasped, his sounds of pleasure growing fuller as he joined Oscar in the race to climax.

It was finished quickly after that, Oscar’s sharp cry echoed by Wamba’s as he tumbled over just moments after. Oscar collapsed back, his hand falling to his side as he gasped and shuddered through the waning shocks. Wamba panted atop him, his shoulders bowed and damp tendrils of his hair clinging to his neck. He was spent and shaky, now that the first flush of exhilaration had faded, and when he opened his eyes Oscar could see that terrifying fragility again, his carefully guarded heart exposed, brittle and beautiful as spun glass.

Oscar thought he might understand. All of his life, Wamba had lived according to the will of others. Now his world was turned over, an unbounded expanse of possibilities open before him, but with it the certainty of his place by necessity stripped away. He needed to know that freedom did not mean he must surrender all those things which were dear to him. On that count, there was one immediate reassurance Oscar could offer. He slid his arm in until he could brace his elbow beneath him and push up onto his hand, sitting up and pulling Wamba flush against him with a strong arm around his waist. Wamba immediately wrapped his arms around Oscar’s neck and rested his head on Oscar’s shoulder, soaking up that comfort and closeness.

“I love you.”

The words were spoken rarely between them, the simple sounds somehow too small to fully encompass the enormity of the emotion they were meant to convey. They held power, nonetheless, more affecting for the rarity with which they were given voice. They made Wamba shudder now.

So Oscar said them again, low and intimate into Wamba’s ear. “I love you.”

“I know,” Wamba whispered, his voice threatening tears. “I just cannot fathom why.”

Oscar thought he might cry also, but Wamba needed him to be sure, so he brushed his hand over Wamba's back and said, “You are very easy to love.”

Wamba sat back, and took Oscar’s face between his hands, knocking their brows together, and though his eyes were wet he was smiling again. “As are you,” he said, “you stubborn, reckless, perfect, perfect idiot.”

Oscar could not help but laugh at this singular endearment.

He knew his flaws. His short temper and impatient nature had gotten him into more trouble than he could remember. But they had also brought him his greatest joys, and Wamba's freedom was certainly among those. He did not know how this would change their lives. He only knew that they would find that path together, and so he did not worry. As long as they were united, everything else would sort itself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex.
> 
> End Part One.


	32. Chapter 32

They returned to London in early September, under a veil of autumn rain. The shower settled in as they approached the city, wetting their cloaks and the flanks of their horses, but even that persistent drizzle could do nothing to dampen Oscar’s exuberance at the sight of the huddled houses and crowded streets he knew so well. He grinned at Wamba as they passed through the city gates, and received an amused smile in return.

“Are you happy to be home?”

“Absolutely,” Oscar said. “We’ve been gone so long, I’d nearly forgotten how ugly everything is. I was even starting to miss the stink.”

Just ahead of them, mounted on his white charger, Ivanhoe laughed. “I agree that the city has an aroma entirely its own.”

“Yes,” Wamba said, “there is nowhere quite like London.” He glanced around as they passed through the market, with a hint of the same satisfaction that Oscar felt, enveloped in the vaguely hostile embrace of the city once more. It warmed him, to see the affection that Wamba had for his home.

“I will miss Rotherwood, too, I think,” he said.

It was true. While he had initially been uncertain about an extended stay at Rotherwood, the decision to remain through the summer had been a good one. The easy days passed in the Greenwood had granted Wamba a much needed respite from the pretense he maintained at court, allowed him to spend time with those who knew him and loved him, and to settle into his newfound freedom. Nora and Gurth were instrumental in this, as only they could be, and Wamba had spent the larger part of his time helping them in their respective duties. He had also spent more than one afternoon shut up with Ivanhoe in his study, in conversations to which Oscar had not been privy but which he knew had led to some sort of resolution on the matter of what Wamba was owed for the years he had spent contributing to Ivanhoe’s wealth.

Oscar, meanwhile, had been allowed to recuperate in peace, gradually training his injured limbs to full strength again. It was to that end that he cultivated a friendship with the bevy of squires under Ivanhoe’s tutelage, and learned a bit of swordplay with them. They were a raucous bunch, ranging from diminutive boys hardly into their adolescence to some nearly Oscar’s own age, but they had taken to him quickly. By the end of the summer, he had even tried his hand at tilting, to their great amusement, as he failed to even come close to striking the target.

Rotherwood had also granted Oscar something he had never anticipated, in the freedom to openly demonstrate his affection for Wamba without fear of recrimination or accusation. Rotherwood was a world unto itself, where an arm around his lover’s waist at table raised no eyebrows, a stolen kiss caused only amused laughter. It was a gift he would not soon forget.

Pleasant as the summer had been, however, it eventually drew to a close, and as the days grew shorter Oscar began to grow restless. After so many months, his brother’s second child must surely have been born already, and Margaret’s as well. He was itching with curiosity, to know what his friends had been doing in his absence, and what other surprises might await him.

The first face he saw upon entering the tower yard was not one of his friends, but it was familiar all the same.

“Farren!” Ivanhoe called a greeting, as he swung down from his horse, Wamba and Oscar doing the same.

“My lord,” Farren rumbled. In his stern way, he appeared pleased to see them.

“You had a peaceful summer I trust?” Ivanhoe asked.

“There were no notable incidents to speak of,” Farren said.

“That’s what happens without this troublemaker around,” Ivanhoe grinned, jabbing a thumb in Wamba’s direction.

“I take issue with your characterization of my conduct,” Wamba rejoined airily, “as I am almost never the one to start the trouble in the first place.”

“Yet you attract it like a dung heap attracts flies,” Ivanhoe teased.

Wamba shrugged, assenting with good grace. He smiled at Farren. “Regardless, you will not need to keep quite such a close watch on me henceforth.”

“Why is that?” Farren asked.

“As Wilfred has seen fit to put me under my own recognizance, I can hardly expect you to stand guard on me at all times.”

Farren’s smile turned very gentle, and one enormous hand dropped onto Wamba’s shoulder. “If you think I’ve been protecting you because Lord Wilfred ordered me to, you will find yourself very much mistaken. As long as there are those who would seek to harm you, you should expect to find me near.”

“I would not question his conviction on that count if I were you,” Ivanhoe said. “I only just managed to prevent him coming out to Rotherwood to accompany us back. He is apparently of the opinion that my own strength was insufficient to assure our safety on the road.”

“One can never be too cautious,” Farren said simply. He looked past Wamba to Oscar. “You appear to have recovered well. That arm working again?”

Oscar smiled. “Good as new!” he declared, rotating his arm to show Farren how easily it moved now, hardly a tug at the healed muscle.

“That is a relief,” Farren said. “We shall have to see about procuring you a weapon, for future travails.” He nodded to Wamba. “You as well.”

Oscar thought that this was splendid idea, though Wamba did not agree, and they ended up debating the necessity of it all the way to their chambers. The familiar sight of the library was nearly enough to bring tears to Oscar’s eyes. He dropped his packs in the middle of the room, looking around and drinking in the familiar worn couch, the scarred table, the mismatched rugs, the patchwork whole of this sanctuary. He was home. 

The hearth was spotless, the furniture free of the dust he had expected after such a long absence, and he reminded himself to thank Emma for that small kindness when he saw her, for he assumed it must have been she who prepared the chambers for their return. Wamba followed him inside, and stood for a long moment as Oscar had done, soaking in the familiar atmosphere of the room, before he took their personal things through to the bedroom, leaving the scrolls and books for Oscar to deal with.

He decided to light the fire first, piling the logs high and sparking the tinder. It had just taken light when Ivanhoe appeared, announcing his arrival with a breezy knock. Wamba wandered out of the bedroom to greet him.

“Are your chambers lonely, Wilfred?” 

Ivanhoe chuckled. “We have been summoned, else I would not bother you quite so immediately.”

That could only mean the king. So Oscar quickly extinguished the infant flame in the hearth and snatched up his satchel, just in case some detailed report on their adventure was required.

King Richard was observing an archery drill taking place in the open green practice field behind the tower. The soldiers taking part looked damp and rather miserable, but under the cricical gaze of their king they had no choice but to carry on, the persistent pluck of bowstrings and thump of arrows into straw targets punctuating the damp air. Oscar spared a thought for Bern and Steven, returned to Locksley’s domain months ago, though Oscar was almost certain he had felt their watchful gaze on him as they made their way through the Greenwood to London. They would have put the soldiers to shame with their skill.

“Your majesty,” Ivanhoe said, approaching the king.

King Richard turned at his voice, and his face lightened. “So you are returned at last!”

“This very hour.”

The king smiled at Wamba. “And I hear you are to be congratulated.”

Wamba bowed. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“It was long past time for you to be a free man,” the king said. “It was beginning to be rather ridiculous.”

“How is it that I was the very last to know about this?” Ivanhoe demanded. “You could have mentioned it. For that matter, you could have freed him yourself.”

King Richard crossed his arms over his chest, regarding his knight critically. “Wamba always said there must be some reason why you did not free him. Little could I have suspected that you were simply too lazy to pay any attention to your own affairs.”

Ivanhoe huffed an exasperated sigh. “The writ binding him to Rotherwood was in my father’s chambers. He kept it apart.”

“And yet,” the king noted, “you have years of tribute records that you never looked at either.”

“I have a steward for a reason,” Ivanhoe grumbled, looking rather sheepish, “and I’ve made amends.”

“Though none were necessary,” Wamba said patiently, and Oscar suspected this topic had been discussed at length in their private conversations. Ivanhoe simply shook his head, letting the argument lie.

King Richard smirked. “So have you sworn your fealty to Wilfred, then? Or is there still time to steal you away?”

“He has not,” Ivanhoe said, “but not for lack of trying.”

“Wilfred insisted that I speak to you first,” Wamba said. “I am at your disposal, sire.”

“No plans to move on to grander things, now that you’ve got your freedom?” the king asked.

“I am not certain what grander purpose might await elsewhere,” Wamba said, an amused tilt to his lips, “but I can think of none that could suit me better than being of service to you here, sire. With your permission, I would prefer to retain my current role.”

King Richard’s smile was satisfied. “I am relieved to hear it. We have nearly had to close the tribunal without you.”

Wamba started, looking sharply to the king. “Is Gilbert not meeting your expectations, sire?”

“Gilbert resigned the post weeks ago.”

“What?” Wamba asked, dismayed. “I would have returned sooner, had I known.”

“I know,” the kind said. “That is why I did not tell you.”

“You are kind, sire, but I would never put my own wishes over the needs of your people.”

“It was in the best interest of the people that you take the time you needed to recover after your misadventure in Blackburn, in spirit as well as in body. That was my decision, and I will not have you question my judgment.” 

“Yes, sire,” Wamba said at once, with a respectful dip of his head. “Thank you, sire.”

“That’s more like it,” King Richard said. “Now that you are back, however, I will be glad to have you returned to the tribunal. It is evidently not as simple a thing as you have made it appear.”

“I will return immediately.”

“Good,” the king said, “but there is one more matter I think we must discuss. I have read the report you sent.”

“Ah,” Wamba coughed, “I was hoping to discuss that further with you in person, sire.”

“I should hope so, as I cannot but conclude that freedom has gone directly to your head. You’ve decided to take on the church, have you?”

Oscar winced. He remembered well the report Wamba had written, and how direct it was in its accusations. Oscar had been tasked with producing yet another copy of the church records to accompany it.

Wamba blew out a soft breath. “I do not wish to challenge their authority, sire, merely ask that they take greater care to ensure that those who wield that power do not do so in a way that harms innocent lives.”

The king raised a skeptical brow. “You realize the church is a power unto itself? Even I have less than perfect influence over what happens within that sphere.”

“I do, sire, but it is more than the people of Blackburn have.”

“You are quite set on this, aren’t you?”

“If you will forgive me for saying so, sire,” Wamba said, “I am merely doing as you asked. If I have taken liberties to expand the scope of my mandate somewhat, it is only because I believe it is in the spirit of your original intent in giving me this task.”

The king regarded him for a long moment, his fingers tapping thoughtfully at his elbow. Then he nodded. “I will think on it. Before you set out to wage war against the Bishop of York, however, I believe your first undertaking is not yet complete.”

“Of course,” Wamba said. “The remaining judges.”

“Four of them, if I remember correctly. I think we shall summon them here, rather than sending you out to investigate them all. That way, you can see to the tribunal, and we can avoid any more excitement like you had in Blackburn.”

“As you wish, sire.”

“Good. We will speak further tomorrow, once you have rested from your journey.” The king’s gaze shifted to Ivanhoe once more. “I would detain you a mite longer, Wilfred. There is another matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“Of course,” Ivanhoe nodded. “Nothing too grave, I hope.”

“That depends on your view of marriage,” King Richard said, with a rueful smile. “I have decided to take a bride.”

“Oh!” Ivanhoe’s eyes widened. Wamba, too, was blinking in surprise.

“I’m told she’s quite charming,” the king continued, “and has a gift for languages, which should serve her well here.”

“She is not English, sire?”

“She is French.”

“I see,” Ivanhoe nodded. “So are the negotiations complete?”

“On the contrary,” said the king. “They are just beginning. That is where I would have your counsel.”

“Of course.”

As Wamba was not needed further, he and Oscar excused themselves and returned to their chambers to finish putting their lives back to order. Oscar was not quite ready to brave the kitchens just yet, so he caught a page in the corridor and sent him down to ask for supper to be sent up, and water for the bath.

They bathed first, washing the dust of the road and weariness of tired muscles away, before settling before the fire in the library to eat. Throughout their quiet meal, the idea of a royal wedding stayed insistently at the forefront of Oscar’s mind. He watched Wamba pick at his food, deft sweeps of his spoon drawing furrows in the pottage that filled in slowly as he talked, and wondered if Wamba would want to marry him. He knew it was impossible, that the permissive atmosphere of Rotherwood had addled his brain, and he must rein in his romantic impulses now that they had returned to London. Still, he thought it might be worth asking, just to know.

Impulsively, he leaned over the table, for a kiss that interrupted Wamba mid-sentence. He heard Wamba’s spoon fall, and then a gentle hand was brushing over his cheek and into his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, slow and sweet. It was enough, Oscar decided, to have this. What was a cold, loveless marriage of strangers compared to the passion that sparked so effortlessly between them?

On that thought, Oscar stood, and lifted Wamba to his feet, and led him through to the bed to make it theirs once more.


	33. Chapter 33

Oscar woke slowly, his body heavy with satisfaction and the last vestiges of the weariness of the road. He tilted his head to look up at the window, the sliver of blue sky, and soaking in the wonderful familiarity of it. Wamba was curled against his side, his nose buried beneath Oscar’s shoulder, puffing slow breaths into his skin, and one leg flung out over Oscar’s. Oscar smiled, a pecked a quick kiss to his cheek, causing him to stir. He mumbled something unintelligible, and turned his face to hide his closed eyes from the light.

“There are no henhouses to tend to here,” Oscar assured him, pulling away carefully and sliding his pillow down to take his place. “Sleep a little longer.”

“Alright,” Wamba sighed into the pillow, throwing one arm up to tug it closer. Oscar laughed under his breath, amused to note that after months of rising early to help Nora in the kitchens, Wamba had immediately reverted to his usual morning laziness upon their return, content to let Oscar see to their breakfast.

Oscar dropped one more kiss on his bare shoulder before he rolled out of bed, swinging his arms up and going onto his tiptoes in a luxurious stretch. He began making a list of all the chores that awaited him while he pulled on his trousers and slung his tunic over his shoulder, snatching up his boots. He yawned, and wandered into the library, scratching absently at his ribs.

A shocked gasp pierced the silence. Startled, Oscar jumped and dropped his boots, wide awake in an instant. He stared, baffled to find wide blue eyes blinking back at him from across the room. Then he got a better look at the intruder, and his muscles began to loosen, his shoulders dropping. It was a young woman, a chambermaid in a white cap and apron. She had long, golden ringlets, flowing loose over the shoulders of her pale pink shift. Her arms were full of firewood, and her small, red mouth hung open in surprise.

“Oh,” he gaped. “Um, hello.”

“Hello,” she returned, her mouth curling in a slow smile. Her eyes dropped, sweeping over his bare chest, and Oscar felt his cheeks heat. He quickly wrestled his tunic over his head and tugged it down to his hips.

“Sorry if I gave you a fright,” he said, trying to gather his composure. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Not as new as all that,” she said, her smile growing as she observed his agitation. She dropped her armload of wood atop the pile on the hearth and sauntered across the room, something bold and assured in her step.

“Of course,” Oscar said. He realized, belatedly, that this must be Margaret’s replacement, though he did not recall the cut of Margaret’s bodice ever being nearly so distracting. “I’m Oscar.”

“Alice,” she chirped, and held out a hand. He took it, small and warm in his suddenly damp grasp.

He snatched his hand away as quickly as was polite, wiping it on his trouser leg as he took a step back. “Thank you for the firewood,” he said. “Have you been keeping these chambers clean?”

“I have,” she said, watching him with sharp, curious eyes. “I was wondering when I would finally get to meet the mysterious magistrate.”

“Well,” Oscar coughed, “sorry to disappoint, but that’s not me.”

“That must be him there, then,” she said, pointing over his shoulder, through the open door that had completely escaped Oscar’s attention.

He whirled around, relieved to note that nothing of Wamba was visible except for the back of his head, the rest of him buried in blankets. He snatched for the handle, pulling the door swiftly closed. He turned, keeping a tight hold on the cool brass.

“That’s him,” he said, trying very hard to keep his voice even.

“And what is it that you do for him exactly?” Alice asked, her blue eyes wide and innocent despite the hint of a smirk still lurking about her lips.

“Whatever needs doing,” Oscar said, and immediately flushed as he heard the words leave his mouth. “Actually,” he rushed on, “you needn’t bother about these rooms any longer, now that we’re back. I see to the chores around here.”

“As you like,” Alice shrugged. “I was told to keep them ready for your return. If you prefer to do my work for me, I’ll not be complaining about it.”

“Thanks for your help, then,” he said, clenching the door handle tight.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?” Alice purred, her smile growing.

“Ah, no,” Oscar said, grasping for some polite way to usher her out. “That’s alright. I’d best see to breakfast now.”

“Very well,” she said, and leaned close once more. “I’ll see you later, Oscar.”

He watched her collect her dust pail and breeze out of the room, leaving him alone and rattled in her wake. He tugged at the collar of his tunic, and realized suddenly that he had put it on backwards in his haste. Annoyed with himself, he quickly righted it and went back for his belt as well before he made his way down to the kitchens.

He was greeted by the usual scene of morning chaos. It was a markedly different atmosphere than Rotherwood’s homey kitchens, cooks shouting at kitchen maids and scullions who scampered to and fro between the storerooms and the cooking fires.

Oscar took a deep breath, and gathered himself to dive into the fray, when a familiar voice called, “Oscar! Is that you?”

He grinned, and turned. “Emma!”

Of all of his friends in the tower, he had missed Emma the most. She was exactly as he remembered her, right down to the cap that sat slightly askew. He reached out and caught her in a hug, there in the middle of the kitchens, shaking her in his delight. Her head only came up to the center of his chest, but her arms were strong around him even as she scowled up at him.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, swatting his chest. “You said you were going to be gone a month! It’s been ages!”

Oscar released her with a laugh, rubbing at his stinging skin. “Cedric decided to stay with Ivanhoe for the summer,” he explained. “I didn’t have much choice but to stay as well.” He would have stayed even if Wamba had tried to send him back alone, of course, but she did not need to know that.

“So you’ve been frolicking in the forest all summer?” she teased. “With the deer and the rabbits?”

Oscar laughed. “More like the squires and the outlaws,” he said, “but what’s happened here while I was away? I found someone called Alice in the library this morning.” If anyone could tell him about Alice, it would be Emma.

To his surprise, her face darkened. “Oh. You met her, did you?”

“She was tidying up,” Oscar said. “I thought that wing of the tower was yours.”

“It was,” Emma said, “but it’s been nearly empty all summer, so Gregory thought it better that I take Margaret’s wing and look after the most important guests, since Alice could hardly tell her tit from her elbow.”

Oscar laughed. “So she is the one Gregory chose to replace Margaret?”

“Yes, even after Margaret and I both told him she was useless at it. I suppose it’s hardly a mystery what qualities swayed his decision,” she said tartly.

Oscar was surprised by the clear hostility in her voice. Emma was one of the most personable people he knew. It was unusual for her to take such a dislike for another member of the domestic staff. He wondered if she might be jealous. Alice was quite lovely, after all, and he understood that women could be oddly spiteful about those things.

“Where did she come from?” he asked.

“She’s the farrier’s daughter.”

Oscar called to mind the farrier, a heavy-shouldered lump of a man with a face like a freshly slaughtered goat. “The farrier has a daughter who looks like that?” he asked doubtfully.

“Believe me,” Emma said, “it was a surprise to me as well. Gregory’s known her since they were children, apparently.”

“Maybe he just wanted to give his friend a chance,” Oscar ventured.

“Oh, certainly,” Emma scoffed. “No matter that she wouldn’t give him the time of day until she wanted the post.”

It was clearly useless to defend Gregory any further. Emma’s mind was made up. So Oscar changed tack. “How is Margaret, by the way?”

That brought the smile back to Emma’s face. “She’s well! She had a son, the roundest little babe you ever clapped eyes on. Clement found them a tenement near the market. I’ve never seen her so happy.”

“I shall have to visit,” Oscar said, glad to hear that Margaret had come through the birth of her first child in good health. He knew the first was usually the most difficult, and many women did not survive.

“You’ll have to congratulate Celia as well,” Emma added.

“What? Why?”

“Apparently pregnancy is catching. She’s just gone to her confinement. Though it’s no fit explanation for Gregory’s madness.”

Oscar wondered why the news did not make him happier. Celia was a good friend, and he should want to congratulate her, but the feeling was strangely hollow. Margaret gone, and now Celia, meant he had precious few friends left in the tower. The smile he showed Emma was chagrinned. “You’re not pregnant too, are you?”

“Me?” she laughed. “When would I find the time?”

“I suppose you’re rather plain, as well,” he said, giving her shoulder a sympathetic pat.

“Some friend you are!” she snorted, rolling her eyes. “Go and get your breakfast before there’s nothing left. You can tell me about your adventures later.”

There was plenty of food, and Oscar escaped the raucous kitchens with a heavily laden tray. He found Wamba dressed and sorting the mess of documents they had brought back with them on the table in the library.

“You needn’t have risen yet,” Oscar told him, nudging a scroll to the side with the tray to make room to set it down. “There’s no hurry today.”

Wamba smiled at him, leafing through one of the records. “I’m quite well rested, Oscar. Thank you.”

“Does the king need you today?” Oscar asked. He sat and took an apple from the tray, turning it in his hand to gauge the best placement for the first bite.

“Not that I have been told. I thought we might get this lot sorted today, and make a start on the summons for the remaining judges.”

“So it’s straight back to work, is it?” Oscar asked, with a sad shake of his head. He sank his teeth into the apple, snapping off a juicy bite.

Wamba glanced at him sidelong, the corner of his mouth curling up. “If you’ve decided you have more of a taste for warrior arts rather than scholarly ones, I’m sure Wilfred would happily take you on as a squire.”

Oscar choked, and covered his mouth quickly to keep from spitting apple across the table. He hastily swallowed and coughed, squinting at Wamba through watering eyes. “Never in a dozen lifetimes.”

Wamba laughed, and leaned over to press a kiss to the crown of Oscar’s head. “You made a very impressive showing, considering your rivals have been trained to it since birth.”

“Still, I think I shall take the more prudent course and use the skills I already have.”

“You were ever a picture of great prudence,” Wamba said solemnly, though he could not keep the laughter from his eyes.

“You’re in fine form today,” Oscar chuckled, “and before breakfast, no less.”

“I had a very pleasant dream,” Wamba said.

“Oh, yes? What was it about?”

He did not get the chance to hear what Wamba might have dreamed, as a sharp knock sounded on the door. Oscar set his apple down and went to answer it. He frowned when he saw who awaited on the other side.

“Something you need, steward?” he asked.

Alard’s face was pinched and unhappy, the glare he turned on Oscar sour. “I am here to speak with Wamba.”

Oscar felt his brow lift in surprise. In all the years Oscar had been obliged to have dealings with him, the king’s steward had never once referred to Wamba by his name.

“Let him in, Oscar,” Wamba said, coming up behind him. He laid a hand on Oscar’s shoulder as he stepped aside. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Alard sniffed, sneering down his hooked nose at Wamba. “I was instructed to deliver this to you.”

He waved a hand, and his usual guard Giles appeared in the doorway, a small chest of iron banded wood in his arms, secured with a heavy lock.

“What’s this?” Wamba asked, blinking at the chest in confusion.

“From the treasury,” Alard said. He stretched out a hand, dangling a long key between his thumb and forefinger. Wamba reached out to take it, just catching it as Alard let it drop.

Giles, meanwhile, stepped forward and proffered the chest to Oscar. He opened his arm to accept it, letting out a grunt at the unexpected weight as it fell into his grasp. He ferried it hastily to the low table before the fire, dropping it with a thump.

“I’ll not be responsible if it’s lost,” Alard said, “so mind yourself.”

“Of course,” Wamba said blankly, staring at the key in his hand.

“As for the rest, the king can tell you,” the steward said. He swung around and marched from the room, clearly eager to be away. Giles gave them a sharp nod as he followed, closing the door behind him.

Oscar went to Wamba, still frozen before the door. “Are you going to open it?” he asked.

Wamba blinked at him. “I suppose I should.”

He knelt down before the low table, fitting the key into the lock with unsteady hands. Oscar watched over his shoulder as he succeeded in turning it, and lifted the rounded lid. The sunlight pouring through the window flashed on a shining pool of silver coins. Oscar’s mouth fell open.

One hand hovering just above the box, Wamba shook his head. “This is more than we agreed upon,” he murmured. “He is so stubborn.”

Oscar gasped, realizing with a jolt that these must be the amends that Ivanhoe had spoken of. It appeared his lover was not only a free man now, but quite a wealthy one as well.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Wamba said. He tilted his head. “I’m sure there are any of number of people that are in need of aid.”

Oscar’s heart gave a twinge, swamped by a sudden wave of affection. He should have guessed that Wamba’s first instinct would be toward charity. He doubted there was one instance in all of Wamba’s life where he had thought of himself first. So Oscar knelt down beside Wamba, and took his thin hands between his own, smiling at him. “You can’t give it all away,” he said reasonably. “You earned it. You should use some of it for yourself.”

“But I don’t need anything,” Wamba protested, frowning at their hands.

Oscar thought for a moment, wracking his brain for something that Wamba did actually need and could be convinced to buy, a first step. Then it came to him, and he smiled. “What about some new clothes?”

“I have clothes,” Wamba said.

“You have your official robes, and you have servants’ clothes, but you’re not a servant now,” Oscar told him. “You should have something suited to your station.”

Wamba glanced up, a hint of mischief breaking through the last of his shock. “Is this a ploy to get me into some new color for your own amusement?”

Oscar laughed, pleased to see his good humor returned. “I confess my idea might not be entirely without benefit to myself.”

“You are very odd,” Wamba told him, and smiled. “Alright then. If you insist.”

Oscar grinned. “Come on, then. Your work will wait. Let’s go find a tailor.”


	34. Chapter 34

It was not quite so simple as walking into the city and finding a tailor. Without a name or an introduction, they were unlikely to find any craftsman of quality willing to entertain them. So they wandered among the market stalls instead, jostling their way through the crowd as they perused a dazzling variety of wares, from fish that gaped in surprise at their own demise and furs still in the form of the beasts that had furnished them to sacks of pungent spices, mountains of round loaves, beer and cider by the cask.

Oscar led Wamba to one of his favorite stalls, bedecked beam to post with delicate cages housing a profusion of multihued songbirds. Wamba stood with his hands clasped behind his back and stared at them in fascination, observing their antics as they hopped and bickered, fluttering against the bars of their tiny prisons. “What are they for?”

“Ladies’ pets and courting, mainly,” Oscar told him. “My brother bought one for Mary when he asked her to marry him. They released it at their wedding.”

“That sounds very lovely,” Wamba said, his eyes soft, “though it is a shame they must live as prisoners until then.”

“Perhaps their freedom is that much sweeter for the time spent in captivity,” Oscar said.

“Perhaps it is at that.” Wamba smiled at him, with such tender affection that Oscar nearly reached for him, before he remembered where they were and what a very poor idea that would be.

“You could buy them,” he suggested, “and set them all free.”

“Others would only be caught to replace them. What use trading the freedom of these for the bondage of their brethren?”

“A handful of silvers in that merchant’s pocket,” Oscar said, pointing to the stall’s owner, who had quickly dismissed them in their humble attire.

Wamba thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not today, I think,” he said, so Oscar led him away, down another branch of the market, pointing out various curiosities, a polished mirror here, a feathered cap there, hoping to find one that would tempt Wamba. He badgered his lover relentlessly until at last Wamba’s eyes lit, and he turned from Oscar to drift toward a humble cart piled with baskets of tarts and cakes. He pointed to one of the baskets, and handed over his penny, accepting his purchase.

Then he immediately turned and gifted it to Oscar, with an air of great satisfaction. Oscar looked down at the sweet in his hand, a confection of spiced dates and honeyed almonds, then back to the pleased smile on Wamba’s face, and wanted desperately to kiss him. His free hand rose, reaching out of its own accord, before he realized what he was doing and quickly forced it down again. He had to look away, to keep from pouncing on Wamba right there in the middle of the market, and rued again the damage that Rotherwood had done to his restraint.

“You were meant to buy something for yourself,” he managed to say at last.

“I would rather buy it for you,” Wamba shrugged.

“Don’t you want one?” Oscar insisted. “I know you like them.”

Wamba’s grin widened, his brow lifting in challenge. “You can buy one for me, in that case.”

Oscar laughed, and did just that. They walked back to the castle side by side as dusk began to fall, eating their treats and reminiscing about what they had seen. Oscar watched the shadows that stretched ahead from their feet, the way the long light erased the differences between them, and realized suddenly the design in Wamba’s actions. He had ensured that Oscar could reciprocate his gesture, be equal in this way despite how completely their circumstances had reversed. If Oscar had indeed harbored any reservations about Wamba’s newfound status, they were silenced.

“Back to work tomorrow,” Wamba said, startling him from his reverie. He was smiling at Oscar, bronzed by the evening glow.

“Are you glad?”

“I am,” Wamba nodded. “I have grown attached to London, against my own better judgment.”

Oscar chuckled. “It seems she has grown attached to you as well.”

They did eventually address the matter of the Wamba’s lack of a suitable wardrobe. Wamba was given the name of a reputable tailor by Lord Geoffrey, one of the friendlier nobles of the king’s court, and they made arrangements to pay the shop a visit after the tribunal ended two days later. As luck would have it, the tailor was located only two streets over from Rachel’s little apothecary, so Oscar decided to take advantage of that fact and restock the medicine chest while they were nearby.

It was only as they made their way into the antechamber, after a lengthy morning of disputes, that Oscar realized that he had forgotten to bring the bottles he needed. He set his scrolls down on the table and groaned.

“What is it?” Wamba asked, dropping his scroll beside Oscar’s.

“I forgot the medicine bottles,” Oscar told him, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“No matter,” Wamba said. “Why don’t you run and fetch them? I have the summons to keep me occupied until you return.”

“Alright. I’ll be back before you can miss me.”

“I think you underestimate just how quickly that can happen,” Wamba said wryly.

Oscar laughed, and pecked a quick kiss to his cheek before he scampered out the door toward the castle. The yard was lively with activity at midday. He dodged a pair of sparring squires, and gave wide berth to a quartet of fine-boned horses being paraded before the critical eye of the stable master, as he made his way into the keep and up to their rooms.

He entered through the library, breezing toward the bedchamber, when a curious sound made him stop short. He frowned, and stretched his ears to listen. It was quiet for a long moment. Then he heard it again, through the open bedroom door, the distinct sound of footsteps, followed by the creak of the cabinet being drawn open.

Oscar was immediately on guard. Shifting his weight to his toes, he crept forward, setting his feet down carefully to muffle the sound of his leather soles on the stone. He gripped the edge of the doorframe in one hand, craning his neck to peer around the edge. The sight that greeted him was unexpected.

“Alice?”

She was standing on her tiptoes, peering into the medicine chest on the shelf before her. At Oscar’s voice, she whirled, both hands flying to her throat, and a familiar orange bottle falling from her grasp.

“Oh!” she gasped, watching in horror as the bottle shattered at her feet, shards of vivid glass scattering in all directions.

“What are you doing in here?” Oscar demanded.

Alice glanced up at him, contrite, as she whipped a rag from her apron and knelt to mop at the mess of oil that had spread from the center of the explosion, collecting the remains of the bottle in a small pile. “I thought you might want the linens changed,” she said meekly.

“There’s no need for you to worry about that,” Oscar said, sweeping several fragments of glass toward her with his foot. “I meant it when I said that I see to these chambers.”

She scooped the glass into the dampened cloth and knotted it into a tight bundle which disappeared into her apron pocket as she stood. “I didn’t mean to offend,” she said, stepping over the slick stain that remained, toward Oscar. “I hope you can forgive me.” Her voice had dropped to a sweet murmur, and a small hand came to rest on Oscar’s forearm.

He looked at her, wide blue eyes imploring, and found himself softening. “That’s alright, I suppose.”

“I broke that bottle. Was it important?”

“Nothing that can’t be replaced,” he assured her. He would have to ask Rachel to furnish him with a replacement, a thought he did not relish as she despised waste and had chastised him at length for his clumsiness in the past, but it was nothing he had not survived before.

“Are you sure the magistrate won’t be angry with me?” Alice asked, chewing her plump lip nervously.

“I won’t tell him you broke it,” Oscar said, wondering distantly why the promise came so easily.

“Oh, thank you, Oscar!” Alice smiled. “You’re so kind!”

Both of her hands were on Oscar’s arm now. He carefully extricated himself, taking a step back and crossing his arms. “He’s waiting for me. You’d best be off.”

“Keeps you on a short leash, does he?”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

Alice laughed, waving a hand. “Oh, don’t pay me any mind.”

She sauntered out the door, leaving Oscar behind, staring at the slick patch on the floor in bewilderment. He quickly scrubbed the remnants of the oil away, and packed up the bottles and jars that needed to be refilled. He decided he would have to ask the steward to have a lock installed on the door, as he closed it behind him.

Farren insisted on accompanying them to the tailor, with a simple, “Your face is known.” He remained by the door while Oscar followed Wamba inside. The shop was a jumble of color. Wide trestle tables lined the sides, with fabrics of all hues and descriptions spilled across their surfaces. Two assistants sat cross-legged in the well of a large window, bent over their laps where needles flashed as they wove seams in neat lines of stitches, giving form to shapeless piles of cloth.

The tailor himself was a tall, thin man in a black doublet and hose. He eyed them critically as they entered, taking in Wamba’s robe and concluding, “You’re the one Lord Geoffrey sent?”

“I am,” Wamba nodded.

“I see,” the tailor replied, brusque and businesslike. “What is it that you need?”

Wamba hesitated, evidently at a loss, so Oscar said, “Everything.”

The vagueness of his instruction did not daunt the tailor, who quickly began pulling out samples of garments of a befuddling variety for them to appraise. Wamba immediately dismissed the more outrageous fashions, the puffed breeches, embroidered doublets and voluminous capes. He favored the simple, clean lines of straight legged trousers and fitted tunics, with the one requirement that the collar be built tall. It was an arduous process, but at last he was shepherded to a small cupboard at the back of the shop to don his selections.

Oscar fidgeted with a box of buttons and leather laces while he waited for Wamba to emerge, until one of the assistants looked up from his sewing to glare in his direction. Then Wamba appeared, and Oscar could not help but laugh, for he suddenly realized that the clothing Wamba had chosen was very similar to what he already owned, if rendered in more sumptuous fabrics. He stepped close to Wamba, using the pretense of servant to tug at the cuffs of his sleeves and run a finger along the edge of his collar.

“They do suit you,” he said, “but I think you should have something just a little extravagant.”

“I’ve very little comfort with velvet and brocade,” Wamba said doubtfully.

“You are certainly a man of straightforward tastes,” the tailor interjected. He shooed Oscar aside to assess the fit of the tunic, pinching the excess tight between his deft fingers. “I think I might have just the thing.”

He reached behind one of the trestle tables, where a stand was piled with layer after layer of tanned leather. He lifted away several of the coats, before settling on one with the color and sheen of freshly hulled chestnuts. He shook it out with a snap, and held it out for Wamba to thread his arms through the sleeves. It settled on his shoulders perfectly, narrow at the waist and draping over his hips. Oscar stared, overwhelmed by a moment of painful arousal, followed by immediate panic.

The tailor tugged at the sleeves, looking Wamba over. “That’s very good,” he muttered. “Needs a bit of taking in, though. Where did I put my measure?”

As he wandered over to the other side of the room, Wamba looked questioningly at Oscar. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“No,” Oscar said at once. “No, that won't do at all.”

“What?” Wamba tilted his head. “Why not?”

“Because,” Oscar said slowly, “if you go around the castle wearing that, I will be forced to murder every unmarried courtier in London. Possibly the married ones as well.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“You’ve no idea the quantity of soppy verse that will inspire,” Oscar insisted.

He saw the moment Wamba realized what he meant, and a slow smile spread across his face. He stepped close to Oscar, and said quietly, “Perhaps I should look forward to your contribution.”

Oscar swallowed. “Won’t have the time. I’ll be too busy burying bodies.”

Wamba laughed, as the tailor returned and forced him to assume various poses to be measured. Oscar watched the way the fine leather moved around him, and thought despairingly that there was no choice but to make certain Wamba purchased it.

The fitting finally over, Wamba returned to the cupboard to dress in his own clothing once more, and Oscar gave into the impulse to follow him, stepping into the narrow space and pulling the curtain closed behind them.

“What are you doing?” Wamba asked, one brow rising.

“Helping you with your buttons,” Oscar told him, as he backed Wamba against the wall.

“Are you indeed?” Wamba smiled, and pulled Oscar down for the kiss he was longing for, letting him slide his hands beneath the leather coat and up across sharp shoulder blades. They had to be cautious, the kiss slow and quiet, but it was enough to appease Oscar’s impatient lust for the moment. He helped Wamba dress in his robes again, though his assistance was more of a hindrance than anything.

The tailor did not comment when they emerged together from the closet, the discarded clothing in Oscar’s arms. He simply took the bundle, setting it aside. “You can return in one week to collect the garments.”

They thanked him, and went outside, where Farren waited and the afternoon bell was tolling clear from the tower. Wamba looked up at the sun. “It’s later than I thought.”

“It’s my fault for forgetting the medicines,” Oscar said. “You go ahead. I’ll run to see Rachel.”

“Thank you, Oscar.”

Oscar nodded. He hefted his small satchel of bottles and jars onto his shoulder and set out. Rachel’s shop was two streets over, in the Jewry, and the errand should take no more than an hour, assuming the old healer had what he needed on hand. That was when he swung around the corner, and collided spectacularly with someone coming the opposite way. He could not see the person, obscured under a precarious burden of sacks and baskets, which immediately began to topple.

“Watch it!” Oscar staggered back, and caught himself with one arm on the wooden post of the house. He looked up, scowling, just as the stack of baskets finally lost its balance for good, and Oscar got a look at the person he had struck. The woman stared back at him, shock and dread warring in familiar features.

Oscar gaped. “Cara?”


	35. Chapter 35

“Cara?”

Wide green eyes blinked at him, but there was no happiness there. She looked away. “Oscar.”

Cara dropped her armload of sacks and righted the tumbled baskets, which had spilled their contents across the dusty ground. She scooped up a mound of linens, brushing dirt from them with cursory sweeps of her hands. Oscar could see they were trembling.

He quickly set his satchel down to help her, chasing after a handful of round candles that had rolled across the mouth of the street. He gathered them up and deposited them in their basket, kneeling beside her.

“How are you?” He tried to tilt his head to meet Cara’s gaze, but she studiously avoided his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Oscar,” she said, “but I don’t really have time to talk now. I’m already late getting back.” Her voice was flat, and it dampened his elation at their accidental reunion.

“Oh,” he said. “Of course.” He could not help but feel a little hurt at the coldness of this reception. Cara was his closest friend, the only true confidant he had ever had, and for him, that had never changed, despite the circumstances that took him from her daily life, and that fact that he had not managed to speak to her in over a year.

He watched, fighting off his confusion, as she stacked her baskets on top of one another again, preparing to lift them. The burden was improbably large, and he latched on to the thin hope of an excuse to prevent her running away before they had even had a chance to talk.

“That’s too much for you to carry on your own,” he said. “Why don’t you let me help you?”

“I can manage it. I’ve carried heavier loads than this before.”

“I know you can,” he said reasonably, “but why struggle when I’m here and I can help?”

She looked at the sacks on the ground, the baskets stacked tall, and sighed. “Don’t you have your own errand?”

“It can wait,” Oscar assured her. “It’s not that far to the Gull and Anvil. That is where you’re going, isn’t it?”

Cara nodded, stray auburn curls that were not knotted up in her kerchief bouncing. “Yes, it is.”

“Let me take those, then,” he insisted. He slung his satchel crosswise over his body, spinning it to his back so he could take the heavy baskets in his arms. She relinquished them with obvious reluctance, watching as he lifted them and staggered a bit under the weight before he found his balance.

Then she gathered up the sacks, and led the way. She did not look at him as they walked. He watched her back instead, a gnawing guilt growing as he took in her appearance. Her shift was faded, and she looked thinner than he remembered her. He did not think he had imagined the weary circles under her eyes or the troubled frown on her brow. She seemed to have aged five years in the one since he had set eyes on her last.

“I tried to come see you,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear. “I visited.”

Her step faltered, and she slowed, but she did not turn. “I know, Oscar.”

“Did you get the gifts I left?” he asked, hopeful.

“I did.”

She said no more, and soon quickened her pace again. They lapsed into awkward silence. Oscar frowned, confusion and frustration keeping company with his guilt now. There had always been an easy harmony between them, an understanding so deep it had frequently needed no words. Cara was fundamental to him. To see their friendship so badly shattered, and without and hint or warning that he had been able to perceive, threatened to shake the very foundations of his life. If there was a remedy, he meant to find it.

“Are you alright?” he tried again. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” she said at once, firmly.

Oscar shifted the baskets in his arms, steadying them against his chest, and stepped up to walk beside her, peering at her unusually stern profile. “You know my offer stands, don’t you? Anything you need, you only have to tell me.”

Cara turned to look at him at last, fixing tired green eyes on his face. Her gaze was penetrating, searching for something that he could not guess, but he hoped she could see how earnest he was, willing to do whatever she needed to repair the closeness between them. Then she sighed, and looked away again, a wry little smile on her lips.

“How is your magistrate?”

To his own embarrassment, Oscar blushed. Cara alone of all his friends knew the true extent of his relationship with Wamba. She had urged him to pursue it, after all, had been able to divine his feelings from nothing more than hearing him talk about Wamba. No one had ever been able to read him so well, apart from Wamba himself. He wondered what she saw now, what she hoped to learn, and when he had lost the ability to understand her thoughts as clearly as his own.

“He’s well,” he said at last. “It’s good. Very good.”

“Are you making him happy, then?” she asked, turning her smile on him at last, a reluctant warmth there.

Oscar met it with a tentative grin of his own. “I think you might be surprised if you saw him,” he said. “He’s much happier now.”

“Thanks to you,” Cara nodded.

“I don’t know about that,” he shrugged off the compliment, “but things are very good between us.”

Cara looked away again, the smile falling way, heralding the return of the awkwardness once more. He began to suspect that something had happened to her, something that she did not want to share, to create this distance, for he could imagine what he could have done to cause it.

They did not speak again as they approached the Gull and Anvil. Cara led them in the side entrance, glancing around the storeroom anxiously as she pushed open the door. Oscar looked around the shadowy room as well, but could find no likely cause for her concern. He set the baskets down on top of one of the wine barrels, laying them out side by side and beginning to put the candles and linens away in their proper places, the same as they had been when he had spent much of his time here. It was pleasant to see that this, at least, had not changed. Cara took the empty baskets from him to stack them in a corner. 

“How is business?” he asked, grasping for anything to break the silence.

“Steady enough,” she said. “We’ll be opening soon. Thank you for your assistance, but I’d best get the place ready.”

“Can I help?” he asked, following her out into the common room. “I can light the fire.”

“No,” Cara said. “The girls will be here soon. There’s no need for you to stay.”

Oscar gritted his teeth, growing angry now. He could not possibly fix whatever problem had pushed this wedge between them if she would not even talk to him. He did not want to force a confrontation, but he began to think it might be the only way.

“What…” he began, when a thump on the ceiling made him pause. He frowned, and looked up at the thin boards that separated the main tavern from the garret room above. “Is there someone up there?”

Cara’s eyes widened. She glanced at the stairs behind the bar, then back to Oscar, hasty in her sudden panic. “There is,” she hissed. “That’s why you have to go.”

Oscar’s brows rose, surprised by this new clue to her odd behavior. Cara had never had a serious suitor, as least as far as he knew. His curiosity burning, he asked, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to meet him?”

Another thump, and a creak of floorboards signaled that the stranger in question was well awake now. Cara blinked rapidly, her hands fluttering, urging Oscar to silence. “He’s very jealous,” she whispered.

Oscar stared at her, narrow eyed and suspicious. “Did you get married without telling me?” he demanded incredulously.

Cara shook her head, sighing. “No, I’m not married to him. You really shouldn’t come here any more.”

Her words hit him like a cudgel to the gut, stealing his breath. It escaped him in a huff, hurt and incomprehension swirling in a poisonous stew in his heart and his head, forcing up angry tears.

“What?” he demanded, ignoring her desperate hushing. “Why?”

She looked at him, her eyes wet and imploring. “You’ll make things difficult for me.”

Oscar tried to focus through the pain of this callous dismissal from her life. “Is he hurting you?” he tried, seeking any likely explanation, a wrong that he could repair that would stop her pushing him away.

“No, Oscar,” she said, her voice thick. “Just trust me. It’s better for everyone if you don’t come here any more.”

Oscar swallowed, and reflected that a knife in his flesh had been nothing compared to this pain. He looked away, and said quietly, defeated, “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

He nodded, his vision blurred by tears. “Alright, then.”

“Alright,” Cara whispered.

Oscar did not look at her as he turned and left, pushing out the door and throwing it closed behind him with a resounding crash. He scrubbed at his eyes as he stormed away from the Gull and Anvil, swallowing against the angry tears. His friends had always been important to him, Cara in particular, and he had never wanted anything but to protect them, to be of help to them when they needed him. Now they were falling away like the dried leaves that scattered from the trees autumn crept in, withered while he basked ignorant in the illusion of an endless summer.

Simon and Milo lost to resentment, Margaret and Celia to pregnancy, and now Cara to whatever person she had found who was important enough to her to put him above Oscar. He had never stopped needing her in his life, but she had evidently stopped needing him. That hurt most of all, not even having the mercy of knowing why. His feet turned of their own accord, sending him in the direction of comfort, in search of Wamba.

Misfortune was not done with him yet. He was crushed to discover that Wamba was not in their chambers. It was not uncommon that he was summoned to court for the evening meal, but Oscar could not help but feel betrayed by him as well, a final insult to his torn spirit. He stood for a long moment in the dark library, breathing carefully to stem his tears.

When he had calmed enough to gather himself again, he lifted his satchel over his head, and realized as he did that he had forgotten his errand entirely. He cursed, and gripped the satchel between his hands, fighting the urge to fling it across the room. He stopped himself, and set it down carefully on the table instead, to be dealt with another day, and went to build the fire.

The wood basket was empty. Oscar stared at it for a long moment, waiting to see if the futility of it all would crush him. The feeling passed, so he snatched up the basket with a sigh and went to fetch more wood. The yard was growing dark, the sky beginning to bruise and the first stars flickering into view. The wood was kept in a towering stack behind the farrier’s workshop, tucked against the outer wall. He dropped his basket beside it and stretched up to drag down a log in each hand from atop the pile, dropping them dejectedly and reaching for more.

Then a movement caught his eye, and he turned, surprised to see a pair of small boots protruding from behind the far edge of the woodpile. He tossed the log in his hand into his basket, and stepped around to get a view of the person hiding there.

It was Alice. She was tucked into the narrow space, her golden hair catching the flame from the torch beside the door to the keep. Her cap was in her lap, a wineskin beside her and a cup in her hand. She looked up sharply when Oscar’s shadow fell over her.

“Oh!” she gasped. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here so late.”

“Do you usually spend the evening behind the woodpile?” Oscar asked.

She smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “My da’s in a mood. Best to stay out from under his feet.”

Oscar watched her lift her cup and empty it in several long swallows, and could not think of anything to say.

Alice refilled the cup from the skin, and offered it up to him. “Looks like you’ve had a worse day than me,” she said.

Oscar looked at the cup, at the wine within, inky in the low light, and decided it was as good as comfort as he was likely to find. He took the cup, and sat down beside her feet, setting his back against the wall. He drank, letting the warmth of the wine wash out from his belly and relax his limbs.

“You can tell me about it, if you want to,” Alice said, pouring more wine for him.

Oscar shook his head. “Nothing much to tell. Just lost a friend, is all, and I don’t know why.” He looked at her, pale skin and pale shift against the shadows. “What about you?”

“I haven’t lost any friends today,” she said, “but I don’t have many friends to begin with.”

She reached out and clasped her hand over Oscar’s on the cup, pulling his arm along as she raised it to her lips. He watched her drink, small tongue darting out to catch the last traces of the wine.

“Perhaps there is time for new friends yet,” he said.

Alice smiled. “I don't think it's ever too late for that.”


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

There were many reasons why Oscar did not often drink wine.

He was remembering all of them now, as he woke buried beneath a suffocating pall of blankets with his brow pressed to the small of Wamba’s back. He groaned, and rubbed the heel of his hand into his aching temple, as he tried to remember what had happened after he found Alice behind the woodpile. He had a vague memory of returning after many cups of wine to find his lover asleep, and crawling into bed with him, though precisely why he had decided to eschew the pillow and shroud himself beneath the blankets was likely to remain a mystery.

He stopped trying to force the memories into focus, and fixed his senses on Wamba instead, on the warm scent of him that was pure comfort. It had been pleasant to have a sympathetic ear in Alice, to commiserate with someone after the shock and anguish of Cara’s sudden rejection. As much as he appreciated her presence when he needed a friend, however, it was not really the solace he wanted. Wamba’s presence was a balm, easing even the ache in his head.

He nosed his way up Wamba’s linen swathed spine, emerging from his overheated cocoon until he could mold himself around Wamba and bury his face in the crook of his neck, just at the edge of his nightshirt, loosing a contented sigh.

Wamba shifted, and his body shook in a drowsy chuckle. “You need a shave.”

“Really?” Oscar perked, and lifted his head to rub curiously at his chin, where the beginnings of a decent scruff had indeed formed. His whiskers had been slow to fill in, and left him looking more disreputable than dignified, most days. “You’re right,” he said, pleased.

“It was bound to happen eventually, I suppose,” Wamba sighed into his pillow.

Oscar smirked, and angled down to scratch the bristles on his chin deliberately against the delicate skin of Wamba’s neck. “Prefer to consider yourself a cradle robber, do you?”

“Regardless of what I prefer, that is certainly what most of the court thinks of me.”

“Well,” Oscar said, “I’ll just have to silence those rumors by growing out a magnificent mustache.”

Wamba hummed thoughtfully, and reached over his shoulder to brush his thumb over Oscar’s chin and upper lip. “Sounds ambitious yet.”

“Give it time,” Oscar said, nipping at the tips of his fingers.

“Perhaps I will do the same,” Wamba suggested. “We could be quite the dignified pair.”

Oscar tried to envision it, but the image was patently ridiculous, and not only because Wamba’s beard was hardly more impressive than his own. He could not help but laugh, the dregs of the previous day's melancholy draining away. He did still want to tell Wamba about Cara, and hear his counsel, but it was less important than enjoying this moment, soaking in the happiness that made his troubles seem so insignificant by contrast.

He pulled Wamba back with tight arms around his waist, and scratched his rough chin deliberately against the pale throat, teasing. Wamba laughed and tried to squirm away, pushing at his head, so Oscar tipped them over so that he was on top of his lover. He caught Wamba’s wrists in his hands and trapped them against the bed, to hold him still under the playful torment. Wamba tried once to free himself, but Oscar held firm, so he changed tactics instead. He lifted his hips, pressing up against Oscar through the thin barrier of his nightshirt.

Oscar groaned, as Wamba deliberately ground back against his cock, which was waking now. The last of his headache faded, along with the desire to tease, giving way to more carnal urges. Oscar loosened his hold on Wamba, and turned his head to drop conciliatory kisses on the reddened skin of his lover’s neck as he rocked down against him, meeting his eager motion. He released one of Wamba’s wrists and reached down to ruck up  frayed linen to get to his bare skin, groping at a lean thigh and rutting against the soft flesh of his rump.

Wamba made a soft sound, low in his throat, and spread his legs in impatient invitation, even as his face flushed endearingly at his own eagerness. Oscar would not have even considered letting that overture go unanswered. He reached at once for the oil, groping across the top of the bed table.

He paused, confused when his hand found only empty space. He lifted his head to glare incredulously at the wooden surface, confirming that the bottle he sought was not in its usual place. Then, suddenly, he recalled that very vessel dropping from Alice’s hand the day before, shattering on the floor. As he had never found his way to Rachel’s apothecary, it had yet to be replaced, and they were without any convenient medium.

Oscar cursed, and blew out an exasperated breath into Wamba’s shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” Wamba asked quietly, unable to turn his head quite far enough to see Oscar but clearly troubled by his irritation.

“Nothing,” Oscar assured him, dropping kisses on his skin. “It’s nothing.”

He leaned up on his elbow and slid his hand up Wamba’s wrist to lace their fingers together, holding tight and feeling Wamba cling to him in return. He would not risk injuring Wamba, but that did not mean they had no alternative. Oscar used his free hand to hitch Wamba’s hips higher, and slipped his cock into his warm crevice, sliding against him experimentally in a gentle thrust. The sensation was sweet and satisfying, so he did it again.

Wamba evidently agreed, for he pushed back against Oscar, moaning into the pillow. Oscar smiled and wormed his hand down between his lover’s legs, taking his eager cock in hand to let their pleasure build in tandem. He kept his pace measured, drawing it out, savoring the slow tension and the soft sounds from Wamba’s throat. Eventually, inevitably, the end came into sight. Oscar sped his hand, determined to bring Wamba to climax first. He succeeded, Wamba’s low cry coupled with the sensation of seed spilling hot over his hand the final impetus he needed to push him up and over.

He only just heard it, on the edge of his consciousness, as he crested that peak. A sharp gasp. His eyes jolted open, and he turned his head, in time to spy a pair of shocked blue eyes staring through the narrow gap of the library door. Oscar’s blood froze in his veins, but it was too late to stop his climax, which clawed its way out of his belly in an agonized swell, and died at once in a maelstrom of panic. A flash of pink was all he saw as the intruder fled, but he did not need even that to know who it must be.

Oscar quickly threw off the blankets, and leapt up and off of Wamba, who gasped at the sudden chill. Oscar hastily covered him again, as his eyes swept the floor in search of the clothing he had discarded the night before. His trousers were in a ball at the foot of the bed, his tunic was over the bathing screen. He snatched them up and jerked them on with shaking hands.

“Is everything alright, Oscar?” The soft voice cut through his panic, making him pause. Wamba was leaning up on his elbows now, watching him uncertainly, and Oscar recognized suddenly how callous his actions had been. He had never been so hasty to pull away from Wamba before, after such a tender moment. He realized, belatedly, and with a stab of regret, that he had not even offered Wamba a proper kiss.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, and went to rectify his mistake. He bent to press his lips softly to Wamba’s, and forced a smile onto his face. “Just hungry is all,” he said. “I’ll shave later. I promise.”

Wamba did not appear convinced, but he nodded, accepting Oscar’s explanation. Oscar forced away the guilt of his lie. He told himself he did not want to worry Wamba over something that he could handle on his own. He kissed Wamba again, a quick peck, and stood.

“I’ll be back with breakfast.”

Wamba said nothing as he watched Oscar go.

The door leading from the library into the corridor stood open. The intruder had fled so fast she had not even bothered to close it behind her. Oscar shook his head as he made his way down the stairs, anger beginning to boil up. Emma was one of the first people he saw when he entered the kitchen. He stormed across to her, watching her eyes widen at his approach, and demanded, “Have you seen Alice?”

Emma’s brows lifted nearly to her cap. “She just went out into the garden.”

“Thanks,” Oscar managed to remember to say as he stalked through the kitchen door and into the cool morning air, where he caught his quarry at last. Alice was pouring out a pail of ash onto the small mound there, her back to him, so he stopped just behind her and growled, “What did you think you were doing?”

Alice gasped and jumped at his voice. She turned, her pail clutched tightly in white hands. Wide blue eyes blinked up at him, radiating innocence. “Oh. Good morning, Oscar.”

He had no patience for her pretense. He narrowed his eyes, and demanded, “Why didn’t you listen when I told you to stay out?”

Alice swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Oscar grit his teeth to keep from yelling. “There’s no use pretending it wasn’t you. I saw you. Why were you spying on us?”

She stared at him for a moment, stricken. Then, to Oscar’s utter horror, her eyes welled with tears. Her expression crumpled. She dropped her pail and covered her face with ash stained hands, muffling a sob. Oscar blinked, and took a step back in growing alarm.

“I just wanted to see you,” Alice whimpered. “To see that you were well. You drank so much of my wine, and I only wanted to know that nothing had happened to you.” She lifted her eyes flinchingly up to Oscar, fat tears rolling down through the ash stains on her cheeks.

“Oh,” he said numbly, hands hovering uncertainly in the air, as though to ward her off, or perhaps to reach out. She must have taken it as the latter, for she clasped his hands in hers, small and slightly damp.

“I thought we were friends. I just want a friend.” She sniffed piteously, lowering her eyes so all he saw was the dark clumps of her wet lashes against pale skin as she whispered, “Everyone here hates me.”

Oscar frowned. “What?”

“None of the other maids like me. They all think I’m useless, but they won’t help me learn. They’re always trying to get me into trouble. Last week Emma told me to use the wrong plates and the cook whacked me with her spoon.”

That sort of bullying did not sound like something Emma would do. She had never been anything but helpful to Oscar, to any of the new servants, but Oscar remembered her harsh words to him about Alice. Perhaps her jealousy had wakened her darker impulses.

“I won’t tell anyone about you,” Alice said, gazing up earnestly at Oscar. “I swear.”

He looked down at her delicate, tearstained features, and felt his heart soften. “You really mustn’t," he said, "if we’re to be friends.”

Her sudden smile was radiant. “You can trust me! Oh, you can!”

“Alright, then.” Oscar carefully extracted his hands from her grasp. “You’ll want to wash your face. Let me get you some water.”

He helped her pull up a pail from the well, pointing out the patches of ash that she had missed, and she left with a smile on her face and a spring in her step. Oscar stared after her for a moment, then upended the bucket to douse his own head, trying to gather his thoughts before he went back inside. Emma was gone, so he took a tray, feeling better about the whole incident and reasonably confident that Alice would be true to her word.

Of course, now that that urgency had passed, he had more than enough leisure to remember and regret how he had treated Wamba. Oscar resolved to make amends for his lack of attentiveness with as much coddling as Wamba could stand from him. He smiled to himself, looking forward to the challenge, as he shouldered open the library door.

Wamba was waiting for him, in his robes with a small square of parchment in his hand and a serious expression on his face.

“What is it?” Oscar asked, immediately on guard as he set the tray down on the table.

“I have some unfortunate news.”

Oscar’s heart skipped. “What’s the matter?”

Wamba looked down at the parchment in his hand, then offered it to Oscar. “You’ve been summoned by the king.”

“What?” Oscar gaped. “Why?”

“I’m afraid Clerewald has died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex.


	37. Chapter 37

“Sit.”

Oscar sat, and stared at the king across his great table. He would normally have bristled at the command, but he was too dazed to do anything but obey. His thoughts sloshed around his head like ale in a cask, muddled and impossible to grasp.

King Richard did not sit. He stood gazing out the leaded glass window of his study as he said, “Do you know why I’ve called you?”

“Clerewald?” Oscar ventured, still uncertain what his summons had to do with the archivist.

“Yes,” the king said. “I see Wamba told you. It happened early this morning.”

“Do you know,” Oscar began, and swallowed. “Do you know if he was alone?”

“His niece was with him,” the king said curtly. “He had been ill for some time.”

“I’m glad she was there,” Oscar said, “but what does it have to do with me? I didn’t do anything to him.”

The king turned at last, looking Oscar over with a measuring scrutiny, and Oscar was suddenly grateful that Wamba had forced him to change his clothes and clean himself up before he let him leave, though he had needed help guiding the razor.

“There is no doubt his passing was natural. You are under no suspicion. I summoned you for another reason. Can you guess what that might be?”

Oscar looked at his hands, and tried to think, but his foggy brain failed to produce any reasonable explanation. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Do you not?” King Richard asked, a faint edge creeping into his tone.

Oscar swallowed, and shook his head, wondering if he was about to be chastised after all.

“Perhaps you are more humble than I realized,” the king said. “Or merely a bit thick.”

Oscar humored him with a weak snort, but neither of them had much heart for the jest. The king sighed and sat, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepling his fingers before him. Oscar watched his hands rather than meet his eyes.

“Clerewald was a brilliant and dedicated man, but he was also a very eccentric one. His system of record keeping is nearly incomprehensible to my scribes. This is no surprise, as he could hardly tolerate their presence for the length of time it took to produce whatever information they needed. He never shared his methods with them. But, for whatever reason, Clerewald had a remarkable fondness for you. You might be the only one who can navigate those records now.”

Oscar blinked. “I didn’t realize.”

“You spent more time in the archives than anyone else in the castle, save Clerewald himself.” The king chuckled. “For all practical purposes, you have had a princely education at the hands of one of the most learned men in the kingdom.”

Oscar had never thought of his afternoons spent with Clerewald that way. He had enjoyed the old man’s prickly company and his willingness to satisfy Oscar’s many curiosities, but he could not deny the value of that time, confronted with it so plainly. He looked at the king. “What do you want me to do?”

“Only what you promised me when you stood here last. Put that knowledge to use in the service of your king. I will be selecting a new archivist. Already several candidates have been put forward, from various trade guilds and the abbey. One of my own scribes has expressed a desire to be considered. Whoever ultimately takes the role, he will need your assistance in making sense of the records and making sure they are updated and organized. After that, we shall see what your role may be. The archives are at the heart of authority in this kingdom. It is essential that they are preserved in usable form.”

“What about the tribunal?” Oscar asked. What the king was asking of him would take time, much more than he had to give and also keep his other duties.

King Richard quickly confirmed his fears. “I have no doubt your assistance there is valuable, but as I understand it much of what you do now is scribe’s work. I trust that Wamba can manage without you. I will give him a boy to help him for the time you are needed.”

Oscar frowned, unhappy at the idea of abandoning Wamba, who was the only reason he had any such skills to begin with. “Do I have a choice?”

“I would prefer that you did me this service of your own free will, in exchange for the education you have received if nothing else, but I will compel you if necessary.” King Richard smirked, and added, “To the extent that is even possible.”

Oscar was grudgingly amused, but more than anything he was conscious of the debt he had to the departed archivist. “I know what I owe you,” he said seriously, “and Clerewald. I’ll do what is needed.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” The king smiled, and it was the smile that Oscar had only ever seen turned on Wamba, heavy with satisfaction and approval. It made him shy, a feeling he was not used to associating with the king and was not sure he wanted to. He looked away, and refused to acknowledge the flush on his cheeks.

“Fear not, Oscar,” King Richard continued. “I won’t rip you from him immediately. It will take some time to identify the new archivist, and a scribe for the tribunal besides. It does me no good to hinder my magistrate on the heels of losing my archivist.”

Oscar was grateful for this small mercy. “Thank you, sire.” He tried to smile, but the expression felt unnatural on his face, so he abandoned the attempt.

The king clearly recognized his melancholy. “Do not be too saddened by this. He accomplished much, and lived a long and full life. We should all be so lucky. Honor him by remembering him, and making the most of what he has given you.”

“Will there be a vigil?”

“Yes,” the king said. “Tonight, in the chapel. If you wish you pay your respects, I encourage you to do so. I will be doing the same.”

Oscar nodded, and decided he would do just that. He had most of the day still to prepare himself, to try to confront the grief that lurked just beyond the fog that clouded his thoughts. Once the king had dismissed him, he wandered out into the yard, in search of light and fresh air to clear his head. The high walls of the castle still felt too restrictive, so he made his way through the gate, in the direction of the tribunal. He did not wish to disturb Wamba there, so he turned his feet toward the river instead, and took a seat on a large, flat stone near the water’s edge to wait. He let his thoughts drift, as he listened to the mournful cries of the gulls that swooped over the restless surface of the water.

He did not remember the night his parents died, taken within hours of one another by the same fever. He did not remember the day their bodies were carried away. He had slept through their vigil, in his brother’s arms, and only had the dimmest impression of watching their shrouded bodies being lowered into the ground. He had not understood at that moment what was happening, what it meant. It was only later, when he could not cease screaming for his mother, while Emmett told him over and over, with tears streaming down his own face, that she was gone, that he realized what that really meant. He had not understood death until that moment. It was devastating, an empty ached that echoed in his heart now, knowing that his friend and teacher was gone.

Oscar emerged from his reverie, after a time, and realized that he was no longer alone. That familiar quiet presence beside him brought a welcome sense of peace, calming the turmoil of his thoughts. He turned his head, and found Wamba gazing out across the river, waiting patiently for Oscar to come back to him.

“Did you finish early?”

Wamba looked at him, a sad smile on his lips. “No,” he said. “It’s past noon now.”

Oscar did not remember hearing the bell. He looked up at the sun, surprised to find it considerably further along its course than he expected.

“How are you?” Wamba asked gently.

Oscar sighed and looked out over the river again. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“I’m sorry, Oscar. I know you were great friends.”

“Thank you,” he said. They sat in silent company for a while longer, while Oscar tried hard to think of nothing.

It was Wamba who broke the silence at last, to ask quietly, “What did his majesty need from you?”

“He wants me to help the new archivist. He says I know the archives better than anyone.”

He looked at Wamba, scared of finding hurt or betrayal on his face, but received only a fond smile. “That is a fine opportunity, and one to which you are uniquely suited.”

“It would mean leaving the tribunal,” Oscar pointed out, wondering if that fact had escaped him.

Wamba shrugged. “Yes, but it’s probably past time you moved on to something more meaningful. You’ve learned all you’re likely to there. I know I’ve nothing left to teach you.”

“I learn from you every day,” Oscar told him. “I don’t want to be apart from you.”

Wamba’s face softened. He lifted a hand to brush Oscar’s hair back from his face, an innocent gesture but one that made Oscar’s throat ache all the same. “You are very generous, love, but you have lived in my shadow long enough. This is a chance to prove yourself in a different way. You are well suited to the challenge, and who knows what new opportunities might come of it.”

“Don’t you need me in the tribunal?” Oscar asked. He had expected Wamba to be as hesitant to let him go as he was to leave. To hear him making the king’s case, arguing that Oscar was better off away from him, plucked at the threads of his orphan heart that desperately feared abandonment.

“There are always any number of young pupils eager for such a post.”

Only more vexing than the idea of Wamba going on alone was the thought of him allowing some new student to take Oscar’s place. Oscar scowled at his boots, hurt, until Wamba took his chin in gentle fingers. He guided Oscar’s face up until Oscar conceded and met his gaze. His dark eyes were smiling.

“I am sure that none of them could ever be your equal,” he said warmly, “but I shall just have to make do.”

Oscar wanted to cling to him, to lay his head down in Wamba’s lap and never get up again. Instead, he turned back to the river and kept his hands to himself.

“There’s a vigil tonight.”

“Would you like me to go with you?” Wamba offered at once, thankfully, as Oscar did not think he had the nerve to ask.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Please.”

So they walked out that evening, after Oscar had spent the balance of the day keeping himself occupied with mindless chores. The windows of the small stone chapel were lit from within by a soft glow, guiding them through the dark. Inside, everything was bathed in shadows, the flickering flames of the many candles clustered around the altar providing the only light. The air was thick with the pungent fumes of smoky incense and the low cadence of prayers chanted in Latin by the priest. A respectable number of people were present, scattered throughout the pews, though Oscar did not recognize many of them.

Clerewald was laid out on a table before the altar. His body was swathed in a thick white shroud, like a babe in swaddling clothes, though his aged face belied the comparison. Candles surrounded him as well, unlit, waiting for the mourners. Oscar avoided looking at him too directly, and slid into a pew near the back of the chapel. Wamba followed him, settling close enough to touch, but not forcing comfort on Oscar. He bowed his head and closed his eyes in what might perhaps have been a prayer. Oscar clasped his hands between his knees and stared up at the beams of the ceiling, watching the dancing shadows cast by the candlelight. He listened to the droning of the priest, the hypnotic rise and fall of the chant, and wondered what the words meant, what benediction shepherded Clerewald to his rest.

King Richard arrived, true to his word, and all those gathered rose to greet him. He was the first to approach the table where the archivist rested. Oscar watched as he took an unlit candle, tilting the wick to one of those on the altar to allow it to catch flame. He set it down beside Clerewald’s head, and said something, too quiet for Oscar to hear. Then he turned to a woman standing before the first pew, taking her hands in his as he offered condolences. She dropped a curtsey, her head bowed, and kissed his hand. He did not linger, but spoke with a few more people before taking his leave.

This was apparently the signal the mourners had been waiting for. One by one, they began to approach the altar, each lighting a candle and offering a brief prayer before moving on to make way for the next. In the midst of this, Oscar finally gathering the courage to approach. It was strange, how different Clerewald looked, for being completely the same. The furrows from his perpetual irritated frown were still there, the stubborn bush of hair, the wild white fronds of his eyebrows. From a distance, he had appeared as though he had merely fallen asleep, but upon closer viewing there was some crucial element missing, that essential spark that had animated him in life. Oscar stared for a long moment, trying to find words to capture that difference, before he lifted his candle at last.

“You’re Oscar, aren’t you?”

He turned to see an older woman looking at him, the one whom the king had spoken to first. “How did you know?”

Her smile was tired, but genuine. “My uncle told me about you.”

“He did?” He set his candle down among those already clustered on the table, and stepped aside to let someone else take his place.

Clerewald’s niece followed. “He quite enjoyed your talks. He said you were unusually curious.”

Oscar could not help his chuckle, no matter how ill suited to the somber atmosphere of the vigil. “High praise, from him.”

“I think he was pleased to have someone to talk to,” she said. “Someone who didn’t treat him like a batty old man. Thank you for that.”

Oscar rubbed at the back of his head, all his regrets rising up again. “I didn’t realize he was ill. I would have gone to see him. I was away the summer, and hadn’t had a chance to get to the archives since I got back.”

“His cough finally got the better of him,” she explained. “He was in good spirits, though, to the end. Snapped at everyone, including the priest who read him his last rites.”

Oscar’s laugh was sharper this time. “Of course he did.”

When he returned to his place beside Wamba, the band around his heart had loosened somewhat. It was good, to have the chance to bid Clerewald farewell, to remember him as he had been. He slid his hand across the pew between them to take Wamba’s hand, gripping it between their bodies where it would not be seen.

Wamba pressed his hand in return, and said, very softly, “I know you’ll make him proud.”

His words snapped the final binding holding back Oscar’s grief. It was not only Clerewald who he wanted to be proud of him. Oscar clasped Wamba’s hand tighter still, and let his tears fall at last.

They stayed, until the priest fell silent at last, all the prayers said, and only family remained. Then Oscar wiped the salt from his cheeks and let Wamba lead him home.


	38. Chapter 38

It was several long weeks, the first bite of winter already in the air and the final four judges interviewed and dismissed from their posts without significant incident, before the king finally made his choice. Oscar was unsure of the reason for the delay, as he was not consulted on the selection. The new archivist was, from what Oscar understood, a gifted scribe and former novitiate from the abbey, though the man had not found time to meet with Oscar before assuming his office.

Oscar decided not to let it concern him. He did all that he could to prepare, including a handful of afternoons spent sorting and organizing the small mountain of reports and updates for the official records that had arrived from across England in the interval since Clerewald’s death, a reminder that babies did not stop being born or taxes being collected simply because the man who catalogued these daily events had passed on. Oscar was fairly proud of what he had been able to accomplish on his own, and hoped the new archivist would at the very least look favorably on his initiative.

Doubtful though he had been at first, as the day drew near he found a hope growing inside him that he might impress this unknown man, as Wamba had assured him he would. So anxious was he that he even accepted Wamba’s offer to purchase him new clothing more suited to his new role, something that he would never have considered agreeing to in the past. He let his nerves outweigh his pride in this instance, safe in the certainty that Wamba would never lord over him for it.

Then, finally, the day arrived. He woke early, after a restless night, and made himself presentable, taking more care over his appearance than he normally would. Wamba watched him fret, curled in the bed with a faint, fond smile on his face.

“I’m beginning to think I should be jealous of this new archivist,” he chuckled.

Oscar flushed, and forced himself to stop fidgeting with the collar of his new tunic. “I just want to make a good impression,” he said sheepishly.

Wamba laughed, though it was not unkind. He slipped out of bed and walked over to Oscar, pulling his head down to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “I’m certain you will do just that,” he said, “and even if you do not, your worst first impressions have shown a tendency to turn out favorably for you in the end. You lead something of a charmed life in that regard.”

Oscar wrapped his arms around Wamba to tug him into a tight hug, burying his face in Wamba’s neck with a huffed laugh. “I was rather terrible to you, wasn’t I?”

“Nonsense,” Wamba said, ruffling his carefully combed hair. “Your insolence was the most endearing thing about you. It’s why I kept you.”

Oscar pushed him away with a scoff, trying and failing to resist the urge to straighten his hair once more. “You kept me because the king forced you to,” he said, “though I don’t know what your excuse is now.”

“Now, I know there is much more about you to admire.” Wamba looked him over consideringly, and Oscar glanced down as well, at the cobalt blue tunic and fitted black trousers that he wore. Wamba smiled, satisfied. “You are very handsome, Oscar.”

That made him duck his head to hide the burning flush that rushed into his cheeks, as compliments from Wamba always did. He laughed off the abashed pleasure. “Just a pretty face to you, am I?”

“No,” Wamba said fondly, patting Oscar’s hot cheek, “but if you force me to list all of your fine qualities we will be here all day and I do not think you want to be late.”

He had a point. Oscar ran to fetch breakfast, ignoring the startled looks he received from the servants he passed. Despite his eagerness to meet the new archivist, he was still reluctant to leave Wamba’s side before it was absolutely necessary, too accustomed to spending the days with him to let it go without a healthy dose of trepidation. So he walked with Wamba to the gate, where Farren waited beside a diminutive figure in an overlarge robe with what appeared to be at least a dozen scrolls clutched in his small arms.

“Good morning, Colin,” Wamba greeted him with a smile.

“Good morning, sir!” Colin piped. His shaggy blonde hair fell across his eyes, and he was bouncing on his toes in his excitement.

Oscar had been somewhat disgruntled to learn that he was to be replaced by someone so many years younger than he was, but it was hard to dislike Colin one he met him. The young scribe was friendly and adorably eager, if a bit hapless. Even Farren seemed amused by his antics. Colin was also, they had discovered, completely awestruck by Wamba. Oscar had spent an afternoon with him, explaining his duties and assuaging his nerves by reassuring him that Wamba would not banish him instantly for the merest mistake.

Oscar did not know what it would take to cause Wamba to finally lose his patience that completely, but if Oscar himself had been unable to discover that limit over years of poorly considered decisions, then Colin was certainly in no danger. It seemed that his encouragement had helped, for Colin appeared more enthusiastic than nervous about his first day in the tribunal as Wamba asked him, “Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir!” Colin said, nodding quickly.

“Very well, then,” Wamba said warmly. “Let us see how we shall get on together.”

Colin looked ready to burst apart from happiness at this. Oscar’s heart, meanwhile, gave a sharp twinge, as he realized that it was time to part ways.

“I’ll be going, then.”

Wamba looked to him, and his smile turned very soft. “Good luck, Oscar. I shall see you later.”

Oscar nodded, his heart in his throat as he watched Wamba go, flanked by Farren and Colin. Then he took a deep breath, attempting to calm the anxious flutter of his stomach, as he set out for the archives. It did little good, and by the time he reached the familiar ironbound door his guts were squirming with anticipation.

He ignored the sidelong looks from the guards as they took in his unusual attire, and pushed open the door to enter the familiar chaos of the archives. He made his way between the tall shelves, aiming for the center of the round room, where he had arranged the scrolls and letters received over the past weeks. He stopped, horrified, as the large table came into view. His neatly sorted documents were spilled across the table, their boxes overturned, and at least two scrolls had rolled from the table and made an escape across the floor. Oscar bent to retrieve one that was half hidden beneath the nearest shelf.

“What the devil?” he cursed, staring in disbelief between the scroll in his hand and the mess on the table, two days of work undone.

“Who is that?” called a voice from the far end of the room. “Did you bring the cider I asked for?”

“What?” Oscar snapped at the bookcases that hid the intruder. “No!”

“That’s rather rude,” the voice replied petulantly, growing closer now, and Oscar caught a flash of green through the narrow gap between two shelves.

“Rude is what you did to my records!” Oscar shot back. “Who let you in here?”

“Your records?” the voice parroted mockingly. “I was under the impression they were mine.”

The person who rounded the shelves was young, certainly no older than Wamba. His tousled mop of tawny curls made him look even younger, falling over his ears and framing his narrow face. His nose was long and thin, as were his pale eyes, though they widened when he caught sight of Oscar.

“Well,” he said, his voice dropping to a purr as he looked Oscar over with sharp interest. “Hello there. You must be the help his majesty promised me.”

“You?” Oscar demanded incredulously. “You’re the new archivist?”

The man did not look like any monk he had ever seen before. His robe was of fine green wool, embellished with embroidered panels of cream silk. His fine brow rose as Oscar glared at him.

“What?” he sniffed. “Were you expecting some barnacled ancient like the last one? In that case, you shall have to learn to live with disappointment, though I should think you would be grateful to have something pleasant to gaze upon while you work. I know I am.”

The look he turned on Oscar was most decidedly a leer. Oscar’s skin crawled, and he wondered if he might have tripped and hit his head on his way to the archives, for this must surely be a dream. He gaped, and could think of nothing to say.

The man clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “A shame your wits do not match your looks.” Then he smiled, displaying a row of straight, white teeth. “But where are my manners? I’m Nicholas.” He offered Oscar his hand, and Oscar, on ingrained habit, took it. Nicholas’s thumb brushed over the back of his hand, and he snatched it quickly back, staring speechless at this peculiar person.

He was saved by a new voice from the door. “Your cider, my lord.”

“At last!” Nicholas cried, clapping his hands. “Bring it here, child. Quickly.”

It was Alice who appeared between the shelves, a wooden try in her arms that held a carafe and a single carved cup. Oscar was unspeakably glad to see her, someone to confirm that he was not caught in some manner of fever dream.

“Oh,” she said, stopping as she caught sight of Oscar. “I didn’t realize you were here, too, Oscar. I’ll fetch another cup.”

“Oh, no,” Nicholas said sweetly. “I wouldn’t want you to go to the trouble.” He winked at Oscar. “We can share. Can’t we, Oscar?”

Alice’s brows leapt up toward her cap. She blinked at Oscar. “I see,” she said. Something of his shock and consternation must have been plain on his face, for she smiled sympathetically, and offered. “I’ll just bring up some dinner for you both later, shall I?”

“That would be splendid,” Nicholas told her. “Off with you now. We have work to do.”

She bit her lip and gave Oscar one more meaningful look as she left, and Oscar watched her go, wishing with all his heart that he could follow.

“Now,” Nicholas said, snatching Oscar’s attention back to him, “as we have successfully acquainted ourselves, there is no time to waste sorting this mess into something usable.”

The reminder of his purpose here freed Oscar’s voice at last. He shook himself, and coughed, calling to mind the plan he had sketched out during the interminable wait for the new archivist. “You’ll want to start with the estate records first. It will be much easier to update the shire records once those are in order.”

Nicholas waved a dismissive hand, shaking his head. “No, I should think not. The current system is far too arcane for a working archive. We’ll be starting the whole thing over. No shortcuts.” He wagged a finger at Oscar. “Prepare yourself.”

Oscar frowned, affronted at the insult to Clerewald. “There’s nothing wrong with the system as it is. It’s worked like this for years.”

“I beg to differ,” Nicholas said, giving Oscar an arch look, “and as I am the archivist and you are not, we will do as I say.”

Oscar knew his frown was turning rapidly to a scowl. He managed to hold his tongue, but it was a near thing. Unable to safely speak, he grit his teeth and nodded.

“Excellent,” Nicholas said. He waved to the far rear shelves where he had been when Oscar entered. “Go and get everything on those shelves down, will you? It should be no trouble for a strapping young thing such as yourself.”

Defeated, at least for now, Oscar spent the day covering his new clothes in dust, ferrying armloads of books to the central table, where Nicholas flipped quickly through them before he threw them into various piles spread about the floor, showing little respect for even the delicate older volumes. The first time he ripped a handful of pages from one of the tax records, Oscar nearly fell over in his shock. He stared, open-mouthed in disbelief, as Nicholas placed the torn pages in one pile, the mutilated remains of the book in another.

Alice returned with food, as promised, and shot Oscar worried glances, but Nicholas shooed her back out the door at once, and gave Oscar only a few minutes to gulp down a bowl of stew before he sent him back to work. Oscar might as well have been a mute, for all that Nicholas required any input from him. His mood deteriorated rapidly, until he could hardly stand to look at Nicholas, merely worked in silence and waited for the day to end.

The windows were growing dark, and Oscar’s back was aching, when Nicholas finally threw the final volume on the table to the floor and brushed his hands together.

“Well,” he said cheerily, “that was an excellent day’s work. I think I shall be taking my leave.”

Oscar nearly cried with relief, more than ready to be free of this hell into which he seemed to have stumbled, but Nicholas was not done. He turned and waved at the next shelf over to the one they had cleared.

“Get those down and put them on the table, will you? I’ll want the whole shelf by tomorrow.”

“What?” he groaned, unable to contain his dismay.

“If your tardy arrival today is any indication of when I should be expecting you tomorrow, I want those books down tonight so that I have something to do in the morning,” Nicholas said, one raised brow challenging Oscar to argue. “Is that clear enough for you?”

Oscar clenched his fists, and swallowed hard before he managed to grind out a terse, “Yes.”

“Excellent!” Nicholas said brightly. “Then I shall see you tomorrow, Oscar. I look forward to it.”

Oscar did not even have the energy to be upset by the wink Nicholas gave him as he breezed from the room, leaving Oscar alone in the gloomy chamber. He stood in the silence for long minutes, taking in the shambles of Clerewald’s life’s work around him, and let his helpless anger wash over him. He wondered why the king had bothered to give him this task, if all he was meant to do was serve as menial labor for the clearly demented new archivist. Then he lit a single candle and got to work.

It was late by the time he was finished, and made his way slowly back to Wamba’s chambers. The rooms were dark, Wamba gone, so he lit a small fire in the library and fell to the couch, slumping into the cushions with a tired sigh. He was distantly aware of his hunger, but it was not pressing enough to merit the trip to the kitchens that would be required to address it. He did not really feel like eating, in any case.

He felt utterly foolish, recalling how hopeful he had been at the start of the day, the childish expectation that he might win the archivist’s approval. Even his clothes were a reminder of his naive ambitions, how far he had let himself get carried away. He closed his eyes so he would not have to see them. He fell asleep that way, too weary even to move.

He woke some time later to the sensation of gentle hands on his face. He opened his eyes, and was overwhelmed with relief to find Wamba’s shadowed face above him, a small crease of worry between his brows. “What are you doing sleeping here?” he murmured.

A hard knot choked Oscar, threatening tears that he refused to let fall. He could not find the words to tell Wamba how very wrong it had all been, how thoroughly his hopes had been crushed. He reached up instead, to brush his fingers over Wamba’s face, tracing the dear features.

Wamba took Oscar’s hand, turning it to kiss his knuckles. “Come on,” he said, and pulled Oscar to his feet to lead him to bed. Oscar held him tightly, and let his gentle hands soothe away the worst of his humiliation, lulling him back to sleep.


	39. Chapter 39

By morning, the creeping roots of Oscar’s resentment had sprouted blossoms of angry resolve. He woke determined to show Nicholas what a grave mistake the arrogant man had made in underestimating him. The king himself believed Oscar was equal to this task. He would not declare defeat because of a disappointment that was the product of his own overblown expectations.

He disentangled himself from Wamba’s arms, which were still wrapped firmly around his back, and whispered a hushed apology when Wamba stirred. One dark eye cracked open, peering at Oscar in confusion in the dim light of the banked fire.

“Oscar? What?”

“The new archivist is an early riser,” he explained quietly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “He wants me to be there at the same time.”

“This early?” Wamba squinted at the window, and the black sky beyond. “It’s still dark.”

“It will be dawn soon, and I want to fetch your breakfast before I go.”

“No, that’s alright,” Wamba said, with a shake of his head. “If you need to go, you should go.”

“You’ll forget to eat if I don’t put your food in front of you.”

Wamba’s drowsy chuckle made Oscar want to crawl back beneath the blankets with him. He dropped a kiss on his lover’s temple instead and stood.

“I promise to eat, Oscar,” Wamba said. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

Oscar’s tunic was still dusty, a few stray cobwebs clinging to the wool. He brushed it off as thoroughly as he could in the low light, determined to show Nicholas by his every action that he had not been cowed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Wamba assured him, his eyes sliding closed again.

“Thank you,” Oscar whispered, and leaned down to give him one last kiss before he left. “I’m sorry.”

Wamba’s hand reached up to stroke through his hair in a clumsy caress, as he drifted back to sleep. Oscar tucked his arm carefully beneath the blankets before he left. Early mornings with Wamba were his favorite time of day, just the two of them, sleepy and playful before any of the cares of the day had a chance to make themselves known. His resentment flared again that this would be stolen along with the tribunal, that he would not even be able to walk Wamba to the gate and see him off as he wished.

His steps had become an angry march by the time he reached the archive, where a lone soldier dozing against the wall let him pass with a tired nod. He was gleefully satisfied to find the room dark, Nicholas evidently not as industrious as he liked to pretend. He lit a candle to supplement the growing light from the windows and looked around at the mess, untouched from the night before. Unwilling to draw any more snide remarks on his work ethic, he began to stack the untidy mounds of books and scrolls that Nicholas had created into neat piles, tucking each into its own nook where it would be out from under foot and give them space to move about the dismally cramped room.

This took him some time, as he could not help but examine the contents of each pile to try to divine the rationale behind the system of sorting, though none was readily apparent. By the time he finished, the sky was full light, and Nicholas still had not appeared. The bell in the yard tolled, marking the third hour, and also the start of the tribunal, and Oscar seethed. There had been ample time to see Wamba off and still arrive before Nicholas, and he had sacrificed that time, abandoned Wamba, for nothing.

Indignation fluttering hot in his gut, Oscar went to check the corridor, leaning his head out to peer in both directions. There was no sign of Nicholas. He slammed the door, and stalked back to the center of the archive, glaring at the blameless shelves until he finally settled on sorting anew the reports Nicholas had jumbled together. As he did, he entertained himself imagining the most creative ways he could murder the new archivist when he finally deigned to appear.

It was hours before Nicholas arrived. Mere minutes before the noon bell, he swept into the archives at a saunter with an apple in his hand.

“Oh! Oscar!” he said, as though he had just remembered that there was another person meant to be aiding him in his task. Nicholas grimaced faintly as he took in Oscar’s appearance. “You look a fright.”

“I could say the same,” Oscar growled. Nicholas’s robes were a garish monstrosity of ochre and rusty orange, with a heavily brocaded collar and cuffs. Oscar could not remember the last time he had seen something so aggressively ostentatious.

“Now, now,” Nicholas chided him, “there’s no need to be hateful.” He took a bite of his apple and looked around the room, at the neatly arranged piles of documents, and his thin brow rose. “I see you’ve been keeping yourself busy. I can only pray that you did not take it upon yourself to shuffle anything about. In future, you should not move things without my explicit instruction.”

Oscar snapped, his rage at the condescension more than he could contain. “I wouldn’t have needed to move your precious mess if you had been here to tell me the purpose of all this insanity.”

Nicholas blinked at him. Then he smiled tolerantly. “You really are so much prettier when you’re not glowering like that.”

Oscar could not fight down the mortifying heat that rose in his cheeks at the casual pronouncement, but he did not let it distract him. “Where have you been?” he snapped. “You told me you wanted to get an early start.”

“Yes, well, I changed my mind,” Nicholas shrugged. “Had a bit of a long night, if you get my meaning.”

“I don’t,” Oscar snarled impatiently, and immediately realized his mistake.

The sly smile that was leveled at him sent a chill through his blood. “I’d be happy to show you my meaning,” Nicholas purred.

Oscar’s stomach lurched, a hint of true panic creeping in. He scoffed to cover it, and threw the scroll in his hand down on top of the table. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

“Ah, ah,” Nicholas said, waving a finger, “you’ve had the whole morning to dawdle about. It’s time to get to work. Go and fetch a ladder. I want to get those records down today.” He pointed up to the rafters, and the single high shelf built directly onto the wall in a ring.

“Are you serious?” Even Oscar did not know what those books contained, as not a single volume there had left its place for as long as he had been visiting the archive. “With everything else here, and all the reports piling up, you want to look through records that haven’t been opened in years?”

“Yes,” Nicholas said simply, his narrow gray eyes intent on Oscar, challenging him to disagree.

Oscar did not give him the pleasure. He threw up his hands and stalked from the room instead. He thought about making a short detour to the kitchens, but he was too angry to eat in any case, so he trudged into the yard instead, heading for the stables. The stable master, thankfully, granted him a ladder willingly enough, and even offered one of the stable hands to help him maneuver the unwieldy thing through the corridors of the castle, but Oscar declined and hitched his arm between two of the rungs. He would rather blunder through himself than risk whatever disparagement Nicholas was sure to heap upon him.

He was leaving the stables, fighting to balance the edge of the ladder on his shoulder, when he looked across the yard and caught sight of Wamba. He stopped, drinking in the sight. Wamba was walking with his scrolls tucked under his arm, and a gentle smile turned on Colin who bounded along beside him, mouth moving in what looked like an enthusiastic recounting of some exciting tale. As Oscar watched, Colin tripped on the hem of his overlarge robe and toppled over, scattering his scrolls in the dust. His face fell, reddening with embarrassment, but Wamba laughed and extended a hand down to help him to his feet. Oscar’s throat constricted with a wistfulness so powerful it nearly brought tears to his eyes, thinking what he would not give to trade places with Colin, and have that pleasant day back rather than the capricious Nicholas and his nonsensical demands.

There was no point in wallowing. He hitched the ladder up higher and returned to the archive, carefully navigating the narrow turns until at last both he and the ladder were inside the room. He stood it up beside the door and rolled his shoulder, rubbing at the bruise the heavy wood had left.

“Where you want this?” he shouted to the shelves.

“Oscar?” Nicholas called. “Is that you? Where have you been?”

“What do you mean?” Oscar demanded indignantly. “I’ve been getting the damned ladder you wanted!”

Nicholas appeared between the shelves, looking Oscar and the ladder over with obvious skepticism. “You’ve been gone an age. Surely it cannot take that long to get to the steward and back.”

“I had to go to the stables. They’re the only ones who have one long enough.”

Nicholas smirked. “I have heard that rumor about stable boys,” he drawled.

Oscar rolled his eyes skyward and prayed for patience. He pointed to the ladder and asked again, “Where do you want this?”

“I don’t care where you start, just get everything down off that shelf. You can stack them along the wall.”

“All of them?” Oscar turned, following the path of the shelf around. It formed a perfect ring around the room, longer than any one of the standing shelves put end to end. He did not want to contemplate how many trips up and down the ladder would be required to clear it.

“All of them,” Nicholas nodded. “Today, if you would. We really have no time to waste.”

“In that case,” Oscar said acidly, “you should start with the records that aren’t so ancient they’re nearly dust.”

“Now, now, Oscar,” Nicholas said sweetly, “haven’t you learned yet which of us makes these decisions? Up you go.”

Shaking his head, Oscar braced the ladder against the wall and clambered up until he could reach the shelf. He used his fingertips to tip a heavy tome out, setting loose a cascade of accumulated dust and a smattering of dried husks of moths and booklice long dead. He recoiled with an explosive sneeze, clutching at the ladder to keep from tumbling backward off his precarious perch. The book plummeted from his hand to the floor below, where it exhaled a dusty thump as it met stone.

“I’d be more careful with those if I were you,” Nicholas said cheerfully. He stood with his hands on his hips, grinning up at Oscar, and made no move to retrieve the fallen book at his feet.

Oscar glared at him. “Why don’t I hand them down to you, in that case? That will go much faster.”

“No, that won’t do. I really must get back to sorting what you pulled down yesterday.” With a insouciant little wave, he ambled back to the table and soon Oscar could hear the steady bump of books being grievously mistreated.

Gritting his teeth, he returned to his task, making sure to keep well clear of the foul showers that came with each new handful and swatting at spiders that rushed to protest the destruction of their comfortable dens. His stomach growled, and he did not know how the day could be more miserable. Then Nicholas began to whistle, an airy off-tune ditty that made Oscar long for something to stop up his ears. Instead, he was forced to endure, bearing armload after armload to the floor and inching his way around the perimeter of the room.

He did not notice when Nicholas fell silent, too busy stacking books in his tired arms, until he dropped down to the ground and a warm breath blew over the back of his neck. Oscar jumped, and whirled around. Nicholas was standing very close, his long gray eyes fixed intently on Oscar’s.

A sweat broke out between Oscar’s shoulder blades and under his arms. “What are you doing?” he croaked.

Nicholas smirked, knowing, as his eyes traveled down to Oscar’s mouth and back up to his eyes. Oscar swallowed, hugging his armful of books to his chest.

Then Nicholas wrinkled his nose in distaste, and took a step back. “I detect a distinct whiff of horse,” he declared. “I do hope you didn’t track anything back in with you.”

Oscar decided he would happily roll in horse shit every day if it kept Nicholas at bay. Wamba could probably be convinced to tolerate it. He shook off the hysterical thought and put a scowl back on his face. “What was that about?”

“Checking on your progress,” Nicholas said. “Aren’t you done yet?”

“I told you it would take more than a day.”

“That remains to be seen,” Nicholas shrugged. “I am leaving. You see to the rest of those books, won’t you?”

“You’re leaving? I’ve been here hours longer than you!”

“And yet,” Nicholas said, “I have completed my task. You may leave when you have completed yours.”

He did not wait for Oscar’s retort, breezing out as easily as he had come, leaving Oscar boiling once more. He stared around at the dark room, the piles of dusty books, and the debris liberally coating his own person, and decided he had had enough. He dropped the books in his arms to the floor and left, desperate for the familiar comforts of Wamba and the quiet library, but it was not to be. For the second night in a row, Wamba was gone, off to the hall with the king and Ivanhoe, no doubt.

He thought about shedding his clothes and falling into bed, but his hunger would no longer be ignored. Dejected, he heaved himself around and went to the kitchen. He was poking around the fire to see what might have been left for the servants, when a voice called his name.

“Oscar!”

He turned, and forced a smile onto his face. “Alice.”

Oscar must have presented a truly pathetic figure, judging by how her eyes widened. “What happened to you?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak she shrieked, and slapped his shoulder.

“Ow!” He stepped back, rubbing at the stinging skin. “What was that for?”

“You had a spider on you!” She quickly looked him over, then shook her head. “You’re a mess. Come on.”

She took his hand, and tugged him through the garden door and into the cold night. “Where are we going?” he asked, though he was too tired to fight her.

“I’m returning the favor you did me. Sit there.” She guided him down on the edge of the well and pulled up the bucket, filled with clear water. She took a rag from her apron pocket and dipped it, wringing the excess out onto the ground.

Oscar flinched at the first brush of the icy cloth on his skin. “That’s cold!”

“I know, but it’s faster than a bath,” she said sweetly. Slowly, she ran the cloth over his face, wiping away the grime. “Is this about the archivist?"

He looked up into her wide, curious eyes, and sighed. “You saw how he is. He won’t stop baiting me.”

“I would have thought you liked that kind of thing,” Alice said, her head tilted curiously to the side.

“What?” he choked. “Why?”

“Well,” she said reasonably, “you get up to all sorts of things with your magistrate, and he’s hardly any different. Don’t you like men like that?”

Oscar hushed her urgently, glancing quickly around, but the garden was empty. Then the absurdity of her words broke through the panic. He did not even know how to begin to explain how different the two men were. Wamba and Nicholas shared nothing but functional positions at court and a habit of wearing robes at their duties. It was almost laughable to think that he had once accused Wamba of inappropriate intentions toward him, when he had before him now an example of what that truly meant.

“I don’t want anything to do with him,” he said at last. “For this job or anything else. He’s a madman.”

“Really?” Alice blinked at him innocently. “He’s quite attractive.”

“Are you mad as well?” Oscar scoffed.

“No,” Alice said. “I’m not the only one who thinks so. Are you sure you’re completely for the men?”

Oscar flushed, confronted so plainly with the question. “I never said I was,” he muttered, feeling oddly defensive.

Alice’s brow tilted up, and the corners of her mouth curled. “Is that so?”

“He’s the only one I’ve ever,” he stumbled, flushed, and gave up. “Alright?”

Alice tucked her damp rag back into her apron and pushed Oscar forward so he was bent over the packed dirt. Without warning, she upended the bucket over his head, and he yelped and leapt to his feet, blinking water from his eyes to fix her with an affronted glare.

She laughed, a satisfied smile on her face and an unusually sharp glint in her eye. She leaned close and whispered, “Come on. I hid a wineskin in one of the storerooms. It’ll help you forget your troubles.”

Exhausted and defeated, Oscar let her take his hand.


	40. Chapter 40

“Haven’t you finished with those yet?”

Oscar startled, and looked down from his perch atop the ladder to glare at Nicholas. “I told you it would take more than a day.”

“If you had done as I asked last night, you would have been perfectly possible to finish. Instead, you clearly decided some other business was more pressing.”

“I’ve been here for hours, already!” Oscar retorted, indignant. He had once again risen at dawn to continue to wage war against the moths and spiders, his mood not helped by the ache Alice’s wine had once again left in his head. “Unlike you, I might add.”

Nicholas displayed not a shred of sympathy or remorse. “As my ability to do my job hinges on you doing yours,” he said, “clearly I was correct not to hurry myself overmuch this morning.”

Oscar tossed a book down, deliberately close to the smirking archivist, who watched it fall with an unperturbed air. “I’m nearly done, so you can start doing whatever it is you plan to do with all this ancient rubbish,” he snapped. “Anyway, I have to get the ladder back to the stable master before he comes looking for me.”

Nicholas’s smirk widened. “Perhaps you should take your time, in that case. It will be a shame to lose this view.” His eyes locked pointedly on Oscar’s rump, positioned at a convenient height for ogling, a foot or so above his face.

“Then we will be fellows in learning to live with disappointment,” Oscar said, rolling his eyes even as his uncontrollable flush heated his cheeks again.

He did not know whether Nicholas was simply trying to throw him off guard with his provocations or his interest was earnest. Either way, he thought the best approach was to ignore the suggestive comments and deprive Nicholas of the fun of watching Oscar squirm, if only his body would cooperate. Nicholas, in a testament to his failure, laughed gaily as he walked away. Oscar could hear him shuffling documents around soon after, though thankfully he was spared further whistling. Left in peace, it was only a few more hours before he hauled down the final armload and swung from the ladder to the floor with relief.

“What do you want me to do with the ones that have fallen apart?” he called, as he bent to drop the dusty books atop the nearest pile.

He froze, and his mind went blank, when a warm weight pressed suddenly into him from behind, the unmistakable shape of a male sex prodding his rump. At the same time, a hand settled over his crotch. His ears began to ring, as the brazen hand gave him a sure squeeze.

The ringing in Oscar’s ears escalated to a roar, that erupted from his mouth with an affronted, “What are you doing?”

He spun, and pushed out at Nicholas with both hands, shoving him back and away with shaking arms. Nicholas stepped back, both hands raised toward the ceiling and grey eyes wide. “Well,” he huffed, “that wasn’t quite the reaction I was expecting.”

“What?” Oscar shouted, trying to swallow down his madly pounding heart which had climbed into his throat. Nicholas opened his mouth, but Oscar waved a hand at him. “No, don’t answer that. I’m taking the ladder back.” He snatched the unwieldy thing and ran for the door.

“Oscar,” he heard Nicholas call, but he ignored the man and carried on ahead, negotiating the ladder through the door with a curse.

He stalked through the corridors, trying to shed the desperate energy the ambush had provoked. If Nicholas’s behavior was a joke of some sort, it had gone too far. Oscar’s skin crawled to remember the sensation of the unwanted touch. He sped his steps, and burst into the yard, where he stopped and stood still for several long moments, drawing the cold air into his lungs and expelling the horror on great, cloudy breaths.

Eventually, he did calm, though he could not muster the will to return to the archive again so soon. Instead, once he had returned the ladder to the stables, he trudged toward Wamba’s chambers, intent on spending a few hours in peace, and perhaps catching Wamba when he returned and convincing him to stay with Oscar for supper rather than going to the hall again. 

In the end, he did not have to wait, for Wamba was in the library already. He looked up from the book in his hands when Oscar opened the door, and his surprised smile was sweet with delight. “Oscar! You’re back early.”

Oscar did not respond, for he noted belatedly that Wamba was not alone. Colin was seated in Oscar’s usual chair at the large table, a scroll rolled out before him and his legs swinging. He smiled cheerfully at Oscar as well, and waved with an ink-stained hand. Oscar hated him fiercely in that moment, even as he knew it was irrational and undeserved.

“You’re working here now?” he asked Wamba, hoping that his voice was not really as betrayed as it sounded to his ears.

A faint frown creased Wamba’s brow. “We needed to reference the statute on asylum for escaped serfs,” he explained, hefting the book in his hands. “We can take it back to the tribunal if you wanted quiet.”

Oscar sighed, defeated. This was in perfect keeping with his spell of wretched luck. He wanted Wamba, and had found him, but could not talk to him or touch him as he wished. Neither could he be so curmudgeonly as to force Wamba and Colin to leave for his sake. 

“No, it’s alright. Don’t mind me.” He dropped down onto the couch and leaned his head back. There was a long moment of silence from the direction of the table, then the rustle of parchment and a soft thump.

“Here, Colin. Read out this bit here.” Wamba’s voice was a quiet murmur, meant as a courtesy to Oscar, no doubt, but to hear that private tone turned on another only made him more despondent. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore everything around him.

“If a law-abiding man,” Colin recited, “comes into the city and resides there for a year and a day without being claimed, he need not defend himself against a claimant thereafter.”

“So what does that mean?” Wamba asked.

Colin’s voice quavered, nervous in the face of a test, but he said slowly, “That the three men are free and can stay in London if they have been here at least a year and a day.”

“Yes,” Wamba said. “So what would you do next, in light of this?”

“Ask them to prove when they arrived?” Colin ventured.

“Very good,” Wamba said warmly. Oscar could not help but open one eye, peeking over the back of the couch. Wamba was smiling at Colin, with the gentle approval that Oscar had coveted daily since it had first been bestowed upon him. Colin was equally enthralled, judging by his immense grin and the happy flush on his cheeks. The adoration in his bright eyes was something Oscar recognized intimately. Unreasoning jealousy began to boil up in his gut, witnessing their pleasant exchange.

“How do they prove it?” Colin asked, earning himself another smile.

“Here,” Wamba tapped a finger on the book. “This is a list of acceptable witnesses. Copy it out, if you would, so we will not need to take the whole thing with us.”

Oscar, unable to stand this any longer, abruptly stood. Wamba looked over at him, a question on his face. “I’m going to fetch supper. Will you be here?”

“Yes,” Wamba said. “We’re nearly done.”

Oscar simply nodded, and quickly escaped into the corridor once more. It was not fair to hate Colin for his innocent admiration, or to resent Wamba for teaching the boy as he had taught Oscar, but he could not control the ugly jealousy in his heart, born of a possessive insistence that Wamba had been his first. He continued to seethe all the way to the kitchens, which was teeming with servants as the hour for the evening meal approached, standing ready to carry laden trays up to the hall above.

He spotted Emma standing beside a platter of roast duck, and caught her eye, though she frowned as she looked him over, concern clear on her small face. He forced a smile, relieved to see her, and turned to go speak with her when another familiar figure blocked his way.

“Oscar!” Alice said cheerily, her golden curls bouncing. “Recovered from last night?”

Her small hand came to rest on his arm, squeezing the weary muscle gently. He turned his smile on her instead, even as he saw Emma’s frown deepen over her shoulder.

“My headache’s nearly gone,” he told Alice, “though my back has started aching to make up for it.”

“I know what you mean,” Alice sighed, shaking her head. “They sent me to help with the apartments for the new queen today.”

“Is she here already?” Oscar asked. It had been weeks since he had last heard anything about the king’s impending nuptials.

“She arrived this morning,” Alice said. “The whole castle went to get a look at her. I was surprised not to see you there.”

“Yes, well,” Oscar said ruefully, “I had other duties.” He wondered if Wamba had been among the crowd turned out to greet the king’s bride, and why he had not told Oscar about her if he was. Then he remembered that it had been nearly two days since he had even spoken to Wamba, despite sleeping in the same bed with him the past night.

“She’s very beautiful,” Alice continued, “but not very pleased to be here.”

“How can you tell?”

“She hasn’t stopped crying since she arrived,” Alice confided, leaning close to Oscar to murmur in his ear. “I got to listen to her wailing all day.”

“Why would she be crying now?” Oscar wondered. “She must have known about the wedding for months.”

“Probably scared, now that’s she’s got sight of the king,” Alice said, a little smirk curling her lips. “Those noble types put a high price on their daughters’ virginity. I’d wager she has no idea what to expect, but she knows it won’t be pleasant. I’d tell her a thing or two if I thought she would understand a word I was saying.”

Alice’s face was gleeful, but Oscar could not find the will to smile. After the mortifying encounter with Nicholas, he had only sympathy for a young woman faced with unwanted attentions. “Hopefully it won’t be too terrible for her,” he said.

Alice laughed brightly, and gripped his arm again. “Oh, Oscar. You are uncommonly good.”

“If you say so,” he shrugged. He noticed a servant waiting impatiently to hand Alice a platter. “You’d better go.”

He stood aside as the kitchen cleared, and only the cooks remained, along with a handful of servants like Oscar, waiting for separate trays. It was only a few minutes more before he was on his way back, supper in his hands that held almost no appeal. He hoped that Colin would be gone, that Wamba had waited as he promised he would.

In this, at least, his prayer was answered. It felt like a miracle to find Wamba alone, seated on his favorite corner of the couch with a book in hand. Oscar’s relief was nearly crippling. It shattered the last of his willpower. He just managed to set the tray on the table before he immediately toppled over on the couch and pulled up his feet, not even bothering to remove his boots as he pillowed his head in Wamba’s lap and buried his face against the flat belly.

Wamba made a soft, surprised sound, and set the book aside to turn all of his attention on Oscar. He carded the fingers of one hand through Oscar’s hair, while the other curled around the back of his neck in a fond caress. Tears sprang to Oscar’s eyes, and he pressed his face closer to Wamba to hide them.

“What’s the matter?” Wamba murmured in his ear.

He swallowed hard. “Nothing,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Wamba’s hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their gentle petting. “And I you.”

He did not say anything more, but let Oscar stay there, soaking in his scent and his tender affection, even as their supper went cold. He did not know how much time passed before he finally rolled onto his back, scrubbing irritably at his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Wamba assured him. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Oscar looked up into his concerned eyes and considered it, but he could not even find the words to begin. “Not really,” he said at last.

“Alright.” Wamba brushed Oscar’s hair back from his face. His other arm lay across Oscar’s chest, his hand on Oscar’s ribs, a comforting weight. He watched Oscar a moment longer before he said, “I had the chance to meet Nicholas at court. Who would think the youngest son of the Earl of Cornwall would be such a spirited man.”

Oscar closed his eyes, and sighed at his own foolishness for thinking he could hide the cause of his unhappiness from Wamba. “He’s very different to what I’m accustomed,” he said noncommittally.

Wamba laughed softly, jostling Oscar. “I do not doubt that.” A soft kiss fell on Oscar’s eyelid. “I had not heard of him before the king chose him, but he came very highly recommended. He is some manner of genius, apparently, in addition to his other qualities. I’m sure he will have much of value to share with you.”

What Nicholas wished to share with him was not something Oscar was prepared to accept. He wanted to tell Wamba so, to beg his help or at least his guidance, but he found his throat closed. Wamba had wanted this for him, a chance to step out on his own and prove himself. He could not shatter that hope by telling Wamba that this opportunity was nothing of the sort, that he was little better than a common dogsbody and a toy for Nicholas to amuse himself with.

“How is Colin doing?” he asked instead, not entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“He is very bright,” Wamba said, “and eager. His notes are very thorough, though he does not have your talent for observation. He worries too much about capturing every detail rather than drawing conclusions from what he has heard.”

It mollified Oscar a bit to hear it, enough to say, “I’m sure you’ll have him sorted in no time.”

“Perhaps,” Wamba said, scratching at Oscar’s scalp in a way that made his whole head tingle pleasantly. “The lessons will have to be put on hold for a while, though. His majesty has decided we are to go to meet with the Bishop of York in the new year.”

“What?” Oscar yelped. “You’re going in winter?”

“Yes.” Wamba did not look particularly happy about this fact. “His majesty evidently found the matter urgent enough to address immediately, along with his other business, though he understandably wants to get his wedding to Lady Agnes behind him before he risks stirring any animosity with the church. As luck would have it, a Christmas wedding means we will set out in January.”

“Does that mean I can’t go with you?”

Wamba sighed, very quietly. “Likely not,” he said. “I doubt his majesty will want you away from your new duties so soon.”

Oscar’s spirits were sinking faster than a stone in a well.

“It will only be for a few weeks.” Wamba sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as well as Oscar, and his face was pained.

Crushed beyond words, Oscar buried his face in Wamba’s belly again, and tried not to howl with despair.


	41. Chapter 41

It took every remaining scrap of determination Oscar had to crawl out of bed and make the long walk to the archive the following morning. It was Wamba’s quiet concern, more than anything, that had convinced Oscar he must find a way through this trial on his own strength. He was meant to be proving himself, and it would not do to run crying to his lover at each obstacle. If Nicholas was determined to be difficult, then Oscar would simply have to be resourceful enough to counter him.

He stood just outside the door for several moments, subtly shaking out his arms to dispel his nerves while the guards watched him sidelong, though they made no comment. Then he set his jaw and pushed inside. He nearly ran square into Nicholas, coming swiftly in the opposite direction. He took a quick step back and caught himself on the frame of the door, narrowly avoiding bowling the man over.

Nicholas drew to a hasty halt as well, the hem of his fine blue robe swinging back toward his ankles. The look he turned on Oscar was wholly unimpressed, without a hint of the apology that Oscar had hoped but not expected to find. “You are late,” he said, “and as a result we will now be late for our appointment. I was about to leave without you.”

“Appointment?” Oscar echoed. “What appointment?”

“Our audience with the king, of course,” Nicholas sighed, as though this were something Oscar should have known.

“When did you ever mention an audience with the king?” he demanded incredulously.

“Oh, did I not?” Nicholas sniffed. “No matter. He desires to be appraised on the progress of the archive, and has explicitly ordered that you attend, no doubt to answer for your dismal conduct.”

“My conduct?” Oscar snapped. “What about yours?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Nicholas said, with an unflappable expression that Oscar longed to strike from his face. He clenched his fists instead, reminding himself yet again that he was equal to this challenge, and stalked after Nicholas to the king’s study. They were bid enter at once.

King Richard was seated before a mound of parchment unlike anything Oscar had seen in the usually orderly room. Three scribes were stationed around the desk, reading through scrolls and making careful notations with their bobbing quills. The king released his own scroll when he saw Nicholas and Oscar, and stood with a palpable air of relief.

“At last.” He clapped his hands, and waved at the scribes. “Enough of this for now, lads. Go make yourselves busy elsewhere. Come back in an hour.”

The scribes were eager enough to abandon their task, though they carefully weighted down the scrolls with small leaden anchors to mark their progress before they went, filing from the room. Nicholas surveyed the chaos of documents and lifted one thin brow.

“It appears you might be in need of an archivist to manage your correspondence,” he said pleasantly. “Should I offer my services?”

King Richard barked a laugh, leaning on his knuckles on the table. “This marriage business is infernally complicated. Would that I were a peasant and could tumble milkmaids in haystacks with impunity.”

“All fun, I’m sure, until someone’s belly swells and someone else is driven to the altar at the end of a pitchfork,” Nicholas smirked, “but I do not doubt that a man such as yourself has no trouble winning the favors of milkmaids, your majesty, or anyone else you might desire.”

Oscar stared at the back of Nicholas’s artfully tousled head, amazed to hear the same insinuating purr in his voice that he had turned on Oscar. He was even more baffled when the king only laughed in response, apparently taking this casual flirtation in stride.

“I do hear they are more trouble than they are worth,” he said, dropping into his chair and resting one ankle on the opposite knee, “but we are not here to discuss the exploits of peasants, nor my own, no matter how amusing. Tell me what progress you have made.”

Nicholas was ready with his response. “I have completed a thorough accounting of the documents contained within the archive, your majesty,” he said, “and have already devised a scheme by which they can be harmonized in such a way as to make them most readily navigable in but a few short weeks.”

Oscar thought this sounded like a lot of utter nonsense, but he limited himself to a pointed roll of his eyes and let Nicholas prattle on uninterrupted.

“Once the reordering is complete, the problem of contradictory and repetitious records should be addressed once and for all, and the task of maintaining them in a current and accurate state a much more straightforward prospect.”

“That is encouraging,” the king nodded graciously, “yet I was surprised to learn that one of my scribes approached you yesterday and you were unable to produce for him the record he required to provide a response to my bride’s cousin on the particulars of a certain estate that is of interest to him. How is it that this is the case?”

The air in the room was suddenly much cooler, as the implication of the king’s question became clear. Oscar was unaware that any such incident had taken place, but of course it must have happened after he had fled with the ladder. He wondered if the summons for this audience had been issued before or after that visit.

Nicholas shrugged with forced nonchalance. “The current system is quite complex, your majesty, and I have not made a close study of each and every record in these few short days.”

The king tapped his chin thoughtfully with a knuckle. “It is for precisely that reason that I provided you with the most ready expert on the matter available to me,” he said, nodding toward Oscar, though his eyes never left Nicholas.

“Yes,” Nicholas said, shooting a displeased glance at Oscar. “While he no doubt has a decent level of knowledge of the previous system of record keeping, Oscar has been somewhat less than committed to his role.”

Oscar might be able to let Nicholas chatter on in his bizarre way where it concerned his own work, but he could not keep silent in the face of such open slander. “Me?” he burst out. “Don’t blame me for this! I tried to help you. You don’t listen to a word I say!”

“We would be much further along already if you had done as I asked you instead of storming off and abandoning your assigned task at every perceived slight.”

The absolute gall of dismissing his actions as something so petty ignited a rage so potent Oscar thought he might burst into flames. “I told you the first day you should update the records and get them in order,” he snapped, “and you didn’t listen. Instead, you made a mess of what I had already sorted, then let the writs pile up while you sent me into the rafters after ancient genealogies and scrolls in languages I’ve never even seen before.”

“Is this true, Nicholas?” the king asked, regarding the archivist expectantly.

“Well,” Nicholas said, his gaze darting nervously from the table to the window and then back to the king, “I might have been curious about what was in them.”

“I did exactly as you asked,” Oscar reminded him, “despite the complete lack of decency you’ve shown me, and the fact that you have yet to explain to me what it is you are even trying to do by tearing books to pieces.”

Nicholas waved an agitated hand at Oscar, clicking his tongue dismissively. “It would take too much time to explain it to you. It’s easier to do it myself. You’ll see afterward.”

“I would remind you that a functioning system of records is imperative to conduct my business,” the king said, interrupting their squabbling. He held up a hand, forestalling Nicholas’s protest. “I understand that you have a vision for the archive, Nicholas, and as my chosen archivist you are entitled to realize it. In the meantime, however, my scribes and bailiffs must have what they need, and I cannot have all of your energies being diverted by curiosities when the living records are in dire need of attention. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sire.” Nicholas squirmed under the king’s stern gaze, and Oscar, no stranger to the feeling, could not help but smirk at finally being vindicated.

“Good,” King Richard said, taking up his scroll once more. “See to it. I will expect another report at the end of next week.”

Dismissed, Nicholas went, his face pinched in a sour frown, but Oscar did not follow. He stood silently before the great table, and waited for the king to take note of him. It was a long moment, but at last King Richard seemed to realize that Oscar was making no motion to leave, and lifted his eyes from his scroll.

“Something else you needed, Oscar?”

“Yes, sire.” With the matter of the archives resolved, at least for now, he had only one remaining complaint in regard to Nicholas. It was by far the harder topic to broach.

He had no idea how King Richard felt about such things. He had appeared more amused by Nicholas’s flirtatious comments than offended, and he certainly knew about Wamba and Oscar and displayed no distaste for their relationship. Still, it was no small thing to accuse Nicholas and potentially endanger his post if the king was less forgiving than he seemed, when the young archivist had not really done Oscar any harm thus far, and had relented at once when Oscar pushed him away.

The king was still waiting for him to speak. “Well?” he demanded. “Out with it, then.”

Oscar took a breath, the accusation on the tip of his tongue, and abruptly changed his mind. “I insist you pay me more,” was what came out of his mouth instead.

The king’s brows rose. “You insist?”

“Is the work I am doing not more than what is asked of a common servant?” Oscar clasped his hands behind his back and stood firm, his chin tilted up. “I want three shillings.” He had no idea how much even a scribe earned, but it felt like a decent place to start.

“Triple your current wage?” King Richard said, a hand rubbing across his mouth, though Oscar had a strong suspicion it was meant to hide a smile. “That is quite greedy of you, considering that Wamba has just enjoyed a significant increase in wealth.”

“Anything would be significant seeing as he started from nothing,” Oscar snapped, still not quite cured of his indignation on Wamba’s behalf, “but his coin is his own and nothing to do with me. I know what I'm worth, and if you want me to put up with that maniac of an archivist, it’s going to cost you.”

“Is Nicholas too much for you?” The king was not bothering to hide his amused smirk any longer. “I thought you of all people would be a match for him.”

“I didn’t say he was too much for me,” Oscar retorted. “I said that what I am doing is worth more than a servant’s wage and you know it.”

The king watched him for a long moment, his stare assessing. Oscar was well practiced at bearing such looks in silence, so he set his jaw and waited for an answer. Finally, the king nodded. “Very well. You shall have your extra shillings, provided I am satisfied with your labors.” He pointed to the door. “Now go and earn it!”

Oscar sketched a quick bow as he left. His step was light and he was feeling immensely satisfied with the turn his day had taken as he returned to the archive. Nicholas, unsurprisingly, was not in such good spirits. He fumed as he banged about the room, throwing books from the table one after the other. His hair was in disarray, as though he had been running his hands through it, and his gray eyes narrowed when he saw Oscar.

So Oscar smiled cheerily at him and asked, “Something I can help with?”  
   
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Nicholas said. He pointed to the boxes beneath the table, where the many reports had found shelter after being shuffled around for days. “Since you wanted to make those updates so badly, you can see to that.”

“By myself?” Oscar frowned. “That will take weeks.”

Nicholas gave him a poisonous smile. “Then you had better get started.”

Oscar groaned, but he was feeling charitable enough not to prod Nicholas and his bruised ego further, and went to fetch ink and a quill instead, stationing himself at the central table to finally begin the task he had been advocating for days. Nicholas had cleared half of the broad surface, so they split it between them. Nicholas worked at the far end, sorting and carrying piles of records from one shelf to another, making frequent reference to the tome that held the family records of the nobility. They spoke little, except when Oscar could not find the record he needed to update and Nicholas had to point it out to him.

By the time the windows grew dark, Oscar’s hand was tiring and his eyes ached from the strain, but Nicholas was still there, and still working. Oscar closed one final record and set it aside.

“It’s late,” he said, breaking a long silence between them.

“Yes.” Nicholas did not look up from the book in his hands. “You should go.”

“What about you?” Oscar asked, tapping the cork into his bottle of ink.

Nicholas glanced up at him, an arch tilt to his brow. “Are you offering to stay and keep me company?”

A frisson of warning tingled across Oscar’s skin, but he forced himself to smile rather than bristle at the provocation. “Perhaps another time.”

Nicholas smirked, a flash of white teeth. “Well,” he said, “you know where to find me if you change your mind.”

Oscar just shook his head as he left, too pleased with the outcome of the day to be affronted by Nicholas’s incorrigible behavior. In fact, he found he did not mind the teasing as long as Nicholas kept his distance. Despite his weariness, he was satisfied with the progress that he had been able to make, and even his unexpected victory in convincing the king to increase his wage.

This was, in fact, the first thing he told Wamba when he found him waiting with supper in their chambers. He was rewarded again with a warm smile, and a pleased, “Congratulations, Oscar. That took quite a lot of courage.”

Oscar ducked his head, embarrassed. “I hadn’t exactly planned it,” he admitted. “It just sort of came out.”

Wamba tilted his head, sitting in back in his chair. “What was the purpose of this audience, then?”

“We were summoned to report on the progress in the archive,” Oscar explained. “Nicholas and I.”

“I trust you had good news to report, if you emerged with such a happy result.”

Oscar laughed, shaking his head. “Hardly. Nicholas hasn’t done anything but make a mess of the place, no matter what I said, and he tried to place the blame for it on me.”

“Is that what’s had you so dispirited?” Wamba asked, clearly still concerned about Oscar’s near collapse the night before, though careful as always in his inquiries.

Now that he had begun explaining, and no longer feeling quite so helpless, Oscar found it easy to explain, “That, and the fact that he can’t keep his hands to himself.”

Wamba immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes sharp on Oscar. “What?” he said. “Did he do something to hurt you?”

Oscar blinked, startled by Wamba’s sudden intensity, though of course there was no way Wamba could ever treat such a thing lightly. Oscar almost regretted mentioning it at all, so mild was the truth compared to whatever Wamba might be imagining. “No,” he said, deliberately light, “just a lot of insinuation, and he startled me a few times. I don’t know what he’s used to, acting as though he expects me to just bend over for him.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Can’t stand the thought.”

Wamba was very quiet, his face stony and serious. There was something there that Oscar did not quite understand, a momentary pain, but it passed and Wamba asked, “Do you want me to say something to him?”

Oscar smiled, trying to rescue the pleasant mood from earlier. “No. I’m certain he’s harmless, but don’t want to think about him tonight. He’s not welcome here.”

“What about tomorrow?” Wamba said, searching Oscar’s face for something, though he could not guess what it might be.

“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” Oscar reminded him, and reached out to take his hand, pulling it to his mouth to press soft kisses to the backs of his fingers.

That softened Wamba at last, his faint frown melting to a tolerant smile. “You know what I meant.”

“I’ll think about him later.” Oscar pushed up Wamba’s sleeve to expose the knob of his wrist and traced the faint scars there with his lips. He glanced up into dark eyes. “For now, there is no one here but you and me.”


	42. Chapter 42

Sunday for Oscar meant a day without duties, and most importantly a much needed respite from Nicholas and all his madness. He lofted a prayer of thanks for the reprieve and refused to let Wamba leave their bed until well into the morning, ignoring the insistent tolling of the church bells. Instead, Oscar gave in to the urge to soak up Wamba’s presence, to lay in reserves for the imminent separation that summoned a cold, hard knot of dread in his chest each time he thought of it. With only a few weeks before Wamba would be beyond his reach, he did not want to waste a moment of what time they had left.

At least, that was his intention, but Wamba was strangely distant, as he had been since their conversation the night before. He did not push Oscar away, but he was docile and quiet, his hands wandering no further than Oscar’s shoulders. His eyes, when they finally met Oscar’s, betrayed the haunted sadness that usually followed a particularly relentless spell of nightmares.

“Did you not sleep?” Oscar asked, leaning up on one elbow to gaze down at him.

“Not as well as I would have liked.” Wamba turned away from Oscar, pushing himself up onto his arms. The line of his shoulders was slumped with weariness. Unpleasant dreams of such an intensity as to leave him so exhausted nearly always woke Oscar as well. He frowned, wondering how it was he had enjoyed a peaceful night while Wamba was clearly suffering.

“Tell me,” he said to Wamba’s back, but Wamba just shook his head, and did not look at Oscar.

“I need to dress. I promised Colin I would help him complete the judicial records today.”

“Today?” Oscar frowned. “It’s Sunday.” Keeping the record complete was a fairly simple task, one that Oscar had completed each day after the tribunal ended. It had never been particularly onerous, certainly not enough to require significant time devoted to it.

Wamba pushed himself out of bed. “It must be today,” he said quietly. “We are behind, due to Colin’s inexperience, and I must teach him to do it on his own as the king has asked for my assistance with the marriage contracts the rest of the week.”

That made sense, even if Oscar was less than pleased to hear it. He slumped down onto his back, remembering the pile of parchment overflowing from the king’s desk. “I saw the mess in his study yesterday. It’s no wonder he needs help. I never knew that noble marriages were so complex.”

“Not all,” Wamba said, doing up the fastenings on his robe. “Wilfred’s, for example, was fairly straightforward, once his father finally gave his consent. In this case, the purpose is purely political, and neither side will spare any effort to extract the most benefit from it.”

“Surely he must have advisors who know how to do this.”

“Not as many as you would think. His majesty has been betrothed before, but he was not yet king then, and no marriage came of it, so he was not obliged to engage in such detailed negotiations. As I understand it, he has found it all rather more harrowing than anticipated.”

Oscar snorted, unable to summon much sympathy for the king in this instance. “Not as harrowing as his bride.”

Wamba’s hands tugged at the edge of his collar to straighten it, pulling it closed at his throat. “What do you mean?”

“I heard she was beside herself,” Oscar said, “wailing all day in fear of the wedding night.”

Wamba hummed absently. “I can sympathize with her nerves. She has likely had no say in this match, if the rumors about her cousin are to be believed. We are not all so lucky as to choose our partners." A knock sounded on the outer door of the library, and Wamba quickly finish putting himself to order. “That will be Colin. We’ll go to the tribunal, so you won’t be disturbed.”

Wamba shot Oscar a small smile as he turned and left, closing the bedchamber door behind him. Oscar stared at it for long minutes, while the silence of the room settled over him. He reminded himself that Colin did not deserve his anger, no matter how much of Wamba's time he was stealing from Oscar, though it was getting harder and harder to believe it. He lay in a dejected sprawl for long minutes, trying to muster the will to rise. When he was finally able to make his body obey his commands, he climbed slowly from the bed and stood looking around the room for something to distract him from his rapidly returning doldrums.

He found it at last in the pile of clothing in the corner. They were familiar, a reminder of the chores he had been neglecting all week while he was consumed in his battle of wills with Nicholas. He dressed, and stripped the soiled linens from the bed as well, gathering up an enormous armload to ferry down to the laundry. It was a task so mundane it required no thought, so he deliberately did not think as he made that trip, then returned to tidy the bedroom and scrape out the ashes from both hearths, filling a pail to take to the kitchens. The frosty air of the garden was bracing. He breathed deep, and watched his breath pour out in a white fog, melting away into the gray sky.

“Oscar?” a voice called softly, as a hand came to rest on his forearm.

He turned, and did his best to smile. “Hello, Alice.”

Her bright eyes were worried, her small mouth pouted in a frown. “Are you alright?”

Oscar’s breath huffed out of him, and his shoulders slumped. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Come and take a rest,” she said. Her hand slipped into his, small and warm against his cold skin, and she tugged him along after her through the kitchens and into one of the storerooms where they had spent more than one evening sharing a wineskin over the past weeks. She sat on a pile of rough burlap sacks, and pulled him down beside her. The lumpy sacks made for an uncomfortable seat, but he shifted until he found a decent hollow to settle his rump. Alice dug in one of her apron pockets, coming up at last with a bundle of linen that folded away to reveal a bit of honey cake.

“Here,” she said, breaking off a piece and offering it to him. He took it from her fingers, and nibbled at the crumbling edge. To his surprise, it was fresh and quite delicious, so he took a larger bite.

“Did you make this?” he asked.

Alice laughed, her small shoulders bobbing and setting her curls swinging. “Where would I get honey?” She leaned over, to whisper conspiratorially, “It’s the last of the king’s breakfast. I caught his butler before he returned it to the kitchens." She was very close, her rosebud scent in his nose and wide eyes peering up into Oscar’s.

“I know that look,” she said, giving Oscar a sly smile. “Having a tiff with Cedric?”

He knew they were alone, but he could not help but immediately glance around the room, to make sure she had not been overheard. When he realized what he was doing, he shook his head, and settled back against the sacks with a sigh. The forced secrecy of his relationship had made it so he must always be on his guard, and he could never have predicted how draining it would become. He longed for the kind of freedom they had known at Rotherwood, but such easy acceptance was not to be found at court. In fact, Alice was the only person with whom he could share any confidences at all.

“It’s not a tiff. He doesn’t like to fight." They bantered and bickered, and Oscar badgered, but it was always meant in kindness. The one occasion when Oscar had struck with true intent to hurt was a regret that haunted him still. "Something's wrong, but he won't tell me what it is.”

“So he doesn’t even let you speak your mind?” Alice scoffed. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Oscar frowned. “Tired of what?”

“Tired of being kept around to service him.”

“What?” Oscar coughed. “That’s not how it is at all.”

Alice shook her head and gave him a sympathetic look. “You still run his baths, don’t you?” she said. “Fetch his meals? Clean his chambers?”

Oscar did do all of those things, but he had never thought of them as an unfair burden. They were simply what he did for Wamba, for both of them, because allowing someone else to do them would endanger their privacy, and because taking care of Wamba had always been important to him.

“And it certainly looked to me like you were doing all the work,” Alice added meaningfully.

Fiery heat rushed into Oscar’s cheeks as he realized what she was talking about. “That’s… It’s…”

“Even now,” Alice breezed on, “when you’re apprenticed to the royal archivist, he still has you living under his thumb and running about doing chores for him.”

That stung his pride, and Oscar turned his scowl on her. “That’s not how it is,” he said again.

“Isn’t it?” Alice said. “You do know that even the youngest scribes have their own quarters, don’t you?”

It was different, they were different, and Oscar had no desire to be parted from Wamba, but it was hard to remember now why he had never thought to question his circumstances. Wamba was free now, and a magistrate, and far more important than Oscar. He was overcome by a sudden rush of shame, realizing how ridiculous he must have seemed, crowing over a few shillings when Wamba had so much more than that now, and could set his sights much higher than a common servant. The panic returned, making his guts clench queasily and his palms sweat.

“He doesn’t treat me like a servant,” he said firmly, trying to make himself believe it.

“Alright,” Alice shrugged. “I only know what I’ve seen.”

“You don’t know him like I do.”

“Of course not,” Alice said, her voice kind and understanding. Her hand came to rest on his arm again, rubbing gently. “I only said it because you’re my friend and I want you to be happy.”

Oscar managed a shaky smile. “I know,” he said. “Thanks, Alice.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m sure everything will work out just how it’s meant to.”

“I’ll borrow your faith,” he chuckled. “What are you doing here on Sunday, anyway?”

Alice rolled her eyes. “We’ve all been pressed into service for her unappeasable ladyship.”

“All of you?”

“Nearly,” Alice said. “You should see her personal servants. Ordering us all about endlessly. I hope they don’t expect to go on like this after the wedding. I finally managed to escape.” She grinned at him. “How fortunate that I stumbled upon you.”

Oscar heard a quick step in the hall, and was instantly alert. The footsteps drew to a halt just outside their hiding place. Oscar and Alice watched the door swing open, revealing a petite shape.

Emma looked at Oscar first, then down at Alice’s hand on his arm, where her eyes lingered for a long moment before shifting finally to the other maid. “Alice,” she said coolly, “the castellan is looking for you.”

Alice’s face turned sour, but she folded her linen cloth and tucked it back into her apron, standing and brushing off her shift. “Where is she?”

“In the south wing.”

Alice sighed, and threw Oscar a small, chagrined smile. “Back I go.”

He nodded, and raised the last of his cake in a salute. “Thanks for the sweets.”

She winked and swept toward the door. Emma stepped aside to let her pass.

“Aren’t you coming?” Alice asked her.

“I’ll be along,” Emma said, and watched with narrowed eyed as she left, leaning out the door after her to watch her walk away. Then she turned to Oscar.

“You should be careful of her,” Emma said seriously.

“Why?” Oscar shoved the cake into his mouth and brushed his hands together to scatter the crumbs.

Emma’s teeth worried at her lip. “She’s a spy,” she said at last, “and a gossip. She’s not your friend, Oscar.”

Oscar bristled, annoyed that she would take the time to make such accusations now when she had been all but absent from his life since he returned to London. “How would you know? I’ve hardly seen you in months.”

“That’s not my doing.”

“So you think that Alice kept you away from me somehow?” he scoffed. Alice was the only person in Oscar’s life who had not betrayed his trust in one form or another. She had kept her word, and kept his secret, the only dependable presence in the midst of Nicholas’s madness and Wamba’s preoccupation with Colin and every other frustration. Meanwhile, Emma had been doing her best to make Alice appear a fool. He had heard every detail, and Emma was far too late to play innocent now. “Is there anything you won’t do to undermine her?”

Emma’s small face pinched in a frown. “What’s happened to you?”

Oscar shoved himself to his feet, and stared her down. “Nothing,” he snapped. “Maybe I just have more important things to worry about than taking sides in your little feud.”

The look he received was so withering he almost took the words back, but he did not have any charity left to offer. She snorted, and looked away. “Have it your way, then.”

Oscar pushed past her into the corridor, striding angrily back toward the kitchen and trying to ignore the nagging guilt at treating her so callously, but he could not see past his resentment to do so. Every time he thought he finally had a grasp on his life, some new challenge was forced in front of him, another impediment to be overcome. Even Sunday, his one respite, was in the end nothing of the sort.

Sunday also meant that it had been over a week since Wamba had a bath, and Oscar would need to prepare that, as well as supper. He went to see to both, and for the first time there was resentment in his heart as he did.


	43. Chapter 43

As Christmas approached, Oscar saw less and less of Wamba. Whatever role the king had given him in the marriage negotiations consumed his every free hour. When he returned to their chambers, it was only long enough to snatch a few hours of restless sleep before he was up and off to the tribunal once more. Even when he did manage to share a meal with Oscar in the evening, he was so exhausted that he invariably nodded off over his bowl before much could be said.

He was not the only one. What was ordinarily a peaceful time of year in the castle, as the various courtiers left to return to their estates for the winter, was transformed by the wedding preparations into pure chaos. Guest chambers long vacant were aired and prepared for the vast multitude of nobles who descended on the castle, more arriving by the day. Along with these guests came retinues of personal guards and servants, swarming the corridors and the kitchens and generally getting underfoot, while the cooks and laundresses and chambermaids scurried to keep pace with their ever multiplying demands.

Oscar counted himself lucky, by comparison, to be shut up with Nicholas in the archives every day, slowly working his way through the records and ensuring that every update was correctly made. Nicholas was still more friendly than he would have preferred, once the sting of the king’s reprimand had worn off, but Oscar found it simple enough to feign indifference to the casual hand on his back as Nicholas asked him a question, the face peering over his shoulder to inspect his work, auburn locks tickling his ear. The capricious archivist was undeterred by Oscar’s studious disregard, but his flirtations were harmless, so Oscar endured.

It was mere days before Christmas before he was finally able to snatch a few hours to go hunting in the market for gifts for his brother and his wife and sons. Either the king had not found time to inform the steward of the agreement he had made with Oscar regarding his wages, or he was not yet impressed that Oscar had earned the increase, so he had only his usual shilling and what little he had been able to set aside to spend, but he was able to manage suitable gifts for each member of his family on that humble amount, and something for Wamba as well.

Wandering through the market stalls, he could not help but be reminded, inevitably, of Cara. His eye leapt by long habit to treats and trinkets that he knew she would favor. A small glass mirror caught his eye, the reflection smooth and clear, and he had it in his hand, ready to ask the price, before he remembered, and put it back. She had chosen her mysterious suitor over Oscar, and it was that unknown man’s responsibility to look after her now. She had asked Oscar to stay away, and he would respect her wishes, though he did not think he would ever stop waiting for the day when she would change her mind.

Then, finally, Christmas day arrived, and Oscar was surprised when Wamba shook him awake at dawn.

“What?” he mumbled. “What is it?”

“It’s time to get up, Oscar.” Wamba pulled the blankets away, exposing Oscar to the cold air of the bedchamber.

Oscar snatched them back, trying to tug them up over his shoulder once more. “What?” he groaned. “Why?”

“You’ll miss the wedding otherwise.”

“What are you talking about?” Oscar squinted up at him blearily. “I’m not invited.”

“You are now,” Wamba told him, a faint smile on his weary face, “as my guest.”

That woke Oscar in a hurry. None of the castle servants were invited to the wedding, though as a member of the king’s council Wamba was. Oscar sat up, staring at Wamba. “Are you serious?”

A shadow of doubt passed over Wamba’s face, and he said, “If you want to go, that is. I just thought that you might like to be there.”

“What?” Oscar laughed. “Of course I want to!”

Wamba’s smile was relieved, and Oscar could not help but tug him in for a kiss, trying to convey his happiness and gratitude, before he scrambled from the bed to hunt down his most respectable tunic and make himself presentable. It was only once he found it and began to brush it down that he took note of Wamba’s appearance. Wamba wore in a black woolen doublet that Oscar had never seen before, the subtlest pattern of silver embroidery lining the collar and cuffs. It ended at his hips, with trousers beneath that were of black suede, and looked soft and supple in a way that made Oscar long to touch. His belt was of the same material, with a silver buckle in the shape of entwined vines.

“Where did that come from?” he asked, staring at Wamba in stunned admiration.

Wamba flushed, tugging at his high collar. “A gift from the Lady Rowena. She says she did not trust me to obtain something suitable on my own, so she had it made.”

“She’s here?”

“She arrived three days ago,” Wamba said, and gave Oscar an apologetic smile. “I would have told you, but that we have hardly had the chance to speak.”

It was at least three days since they had been able to spare more than a few words for one another, and Wamba had not yet returned by the time Oscar fell asleep the previous night. As resentful as Oscar was for the long weeks of loneliness, in the face of Wamba’s contrition he could not help but forgive. It was not as though Wamba had could have refused the king.

“I think you should let her choose all your clothing from now on,” he said with a smile. He tried to concentrate on his reflection as he drew his razor across his chin, but he was unable to help his eyes wandering back to Wamba as he moved about the room, the narrow lines of his body displayed to devastating effect. It was only the importance of the day that prevented Oscar giving in to the urge to put his hands on that body and end the forced abstinence of the past weeks then and there. His distraction persisted until Wamba disappeared into the library and Oscar was able to complete his own ablutions so that they could depart.

They arrived in the yard just in time to meet the rest of their company. The Lady Rowena herself was as stunning as ever. Her waves of hair were swept up under a round caul of gray silk embroidered with gold thread. Her gown was of the same rich cloth, and a snowy white fur was wrapped around her shoulders. Oscar had never seen anything like it, and he stared for much longer than was seemly.

Wamba, more accustomed to Rowena’s beauty, did not suffer from Oscar’s dumbstruck amazement. “My lady, I fear you will outshine the bride,” he said, offering her a deep bow.

She laughed, one demure hand covering her mouth, though her eyes danced merrily. “Desist, Wamba. I have had my fill of shameless flattery from these nobles already.”

“I am sure even the most seasoned courtiers must find in themselves a moment of true sincerity when they speak of your beauty, my lady,” Wamba returned.

Ivanhoe, in his mail and a pure white surcoat, smirked and reached out to knock a gentle cuff to his ear. “You should know better than to speak so boldly to a man’s wife, especially when he is well within range to hear.”

It was Wamba’s turn to laugh, conceding with another bow. “As you say, my lord, but I would be so bold as to point out that it was the lady who showed me favor first.”

“And well does it suit you,” Rowena said, looking him over approvingly.

“My thanks once again, my lady, for your generosity, and also your sartorial guidance.”

“I would have provided your escort with the same, had I known he would be accompanying us,” Rowena said.

“Alas, it was only yesterday that the king finally agreed to my request,” Wamba said. “I pray I have not done you any offense by the unannounced addition.”

“He is most welcome,” Rowena looked past Wamba to smile at Oscar, who quickly bowed.

“My lady,” he rasped.

“Oscar,” she acknowledged him with a gracious nod.

“As we are all finally assembled,” Ivanhoe said, “I will see you to your carriage.”

Ivanhoe had been chosen as one of the knights to accompany the king in his honor guard, leaving Wamba to escort Rowena, a duty about which he seemed apprehensive, but the lady displayed no hesitation. She took the hand he offered to help her alight from the carriage, and placed her hand on his arm as they joined the procession of gaily dressed nobles making their way into the abbey.

The great arched doors of the church were thrown open wide, and royal guards in their bright red livery lined either side of the cobblestone path, forming a barrier between the nobility and the people of London. The gathered crowd was enormous, heaving and jostling for a glimpse of the spectacle. Their excitement was clear in the chatter and the cheers, the occasional sprig of holly that was lofted over the heads of the soldiers to scatter the path. Oscar followed close behind Wamba and Rowena, who was far more composed than Oscar felt, her head held high even beneath the force of hundreds of admiring eyes.

They were halfway to the door, when they were surprised by a sudden shout of, “Cedric!”

Oscar looked, but could not identify the source of the cry. It made little difference, for now that Wamba had been recognized, more voices joined the call, chanting the magistrate’s name.

“It seems my husband did not overstate how celebrated you are,” Rowena said, a soft smile turned on Wamba, who ducked his head to hide a faint flush.

“I think it is merely that I am more easily recognizable to them than the other guests, my lady.”

She shook her head, and patted his arm fondly. “You are too modest.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Wamba said wryly.

“And too apologetic.”

“Ah,” Wamba coughed, clearly stalled on yet another apology. “As you say, my lady,” he said at last.

Rowena chuckled, and Oscar could not help but laugh as well, grateful for an ally in his ongoing battle to convince Wamba of his own worth. He smiled at the crowd, grateful for their show of good will, as they reached the doors of the church at last, and passed into the cavernous nave. It was pleasantly warm, from the mass of bodies as well as the sconces that encircled each of the great stone columns supporting the arched roof. Candelabra hung from the ceiling, lighting the central aisle. They were bedecked with swathes of red silk and pine boughs, as were the pews, in honor of the feast day. They filled the space with the fresh, woody scent of evergreens.

Wamba guided Rowena up the aisle to a pew that was very close to the altar. Oscar looked at the pews behind, and the people they held who were vastly superior in rank to him, and even Wamba, and was struck by sudden doubt. “Are you certain I should be here?” he asked Wamba. “Perhaps I should stand at the back.”

“This is where I was told to sit,” Wamba said, “and the king granted you permission to accompany me. I do not think he meant for you to lurk about like a trespasser in some shadowed corner.“

“Sit down,” Rowena said, forestalling Oscar’s next objection. “If anyone is foolish enough to challenge you, they will answer to me.”

Oscar quickly did as he was told. In his months at Rotherwood, he had never seen the lady lose her temper, but he doubted she ever needed to. Her bearing commanded respect, and her people gave it willingly, but he could easily imagine what a humiliating experience it would be to be excoriated by her, if anyone were ever foolish enough to invite it.

Even as he settled beside Wamba, Oscar could not help his nervous glance traveling the room, wary of any disapproving looks that might be directed his way. He found none, but he did pause when he noticed a very familiar face several rows behind and across the aisle. Nicholas was dressed in a striking robe of midnight blue velvet, both sleeves heavily embroidered in gold. More remarkable than the robe, however, was his wooden expression on his normally mobile face. He stared fixedly ahead at the altar, studiously ignoring whatever it was the man beside him was saying to him. The man in question was the same height as Nicholas, but much broader, with a full beard of the same auburn of the archivist’s curls. Beyond him sat another man of such close resemblance that he must be a twin, followed by a third of similar appearance though he was clean-shaven. Finally, at the end of the pew, was a man much older than the rest, his beard shot through with gray.

Oscar nudged Wamba, pointing as subtly as he could manage to the group. “Is that...”

“The Earl of Cornwall,” Wamba confirmed in a hushed murmur. “I only just made his acquaintance. He is nothing like what I expected, having met his son, but I’m sure you can see that for yourself.”

Beside his family, Nicholas seemed as out of place as a deer among a pack of wild boar. They were all of the same broad-shouldered build, if finely dressed, in stark contrast to his more elegant form. The only clear resemblance was in the color of their hair, and the narrow gray eyes that the Earl turned on the assembled crowd. Oscar had never bothered to wonder about Nicholas’s family. His collection of fine robes and entitled manner marked him clearly, to Oscar’s mind, as a spoiled darling accustomed to having his every whim granted. It appeared he may have been hasty in his judgment.

He did not have any more time to ponder this, however, as a bell began to toll, and the congregation stood as one to turn and greet their king. A trumpet call rang out, from the door. It opened, and half a dozen knights, in shining mail, preceded the king down the aisle, another four following behind. Ivanhoe was at the head of this company, leading them to the altar. His face was serious, though he did spare a glance for his wife as he passed. The king himself was all in black and crimson, gold chains draped across his chest and his crown on his brow, a fur lined cloak trailing behind him as he went. He cut a powerful figure, his visage stern as he made his approach, a very different man than the one Oscar was accustomed to seeing day to day.

The archbishop waited before the altar, in robes of white silk and a richly embroidered chasuble and cap. He welcomed the king, and said a blessing over him in Latin. Then the king stepped to the side and turned. He looked to the door, Ivanhoe at his side. The horns sounded again, and the Lady Agnes appeared at last. Oscar craned his neck to get a look at her, but after weeks of curiosity he was thwarted once more, for her face was shrouded in a gauzy blue veil. A bevy of ladies accompanied her, holding her hands to guide her and carrying her train. Her dress was of deep blue, a fetching contrast to the king, and she was dripping gold from her neck, wrists, and waist. Rubies and sapphires sparkled from her girdle, while a particularly large blood red stone rested on her bodice. Oscar wondered if she had decided to wear the better part of her dowry.

She processed sedately up the aisle, her skirts fluttering with each slow step, until at last she, too, stood before the archbishop. He said a blessing over her as well, and then invited the king to approach. He did, dispassionate eyes on the mysterious form of his bride, and Oscar had the distinct impression that this was more of a duty than a joy for him. King Richard offered his hands, and Lady Agnes placed her own in his, the gold bangles on her arms rattling. The ceremony was in Latin, and Oscar was unable to follow the words, though he could tell when they made their vows, and at last King Richard turned and took from Ivanhoe an ornate ring of gold and clear gems. He slipped it onto her finger, and clasped her hand in his. The archbishop placed his own hand over theirs, and said a final phrase to seal the union.

Then, at last, the king was allowed to reach up draw back the veil from his new wife’s face. Oscar watched intently as the blue shield fell away. The Lady Agnes was very pale. Her dark hair was intricately braided and adorned with a delicate net of pearls. While she was quite lovely, Oscar silently decided that Wamba had been correct. Despite the abundance of wealth draped about her person, the new queen was no match in beauty for Rowena. Her obvious nervousness did not help, the tremor in her lower lip as she looked up at her husband. Her ladies stepped forward to arrange her veil about her shoulders, while she simply stared at the man before her, no hint of joy in her expression.

There was only one piece of the ceremony left. The archbishop turned to a priest standing behind him, with a red cushion in his hands upon which rested a delicate golden crown. This was placed in the hands of King Richard, who waited while yet another prayer was said, and when prompted lifted the crown and placed it carefully to rest on Lady Agnes’s brow, making her his queen.

“Is that it?” Oscar leaned over to whisper to Wamba, and earned a reproving glance.

“There is the mass still,” he muttered, little more than a breath.

Oscar nearly groaned, but he reminded himself what a privilege it was to be here, and what Wamba had done to win it for him. He could abide another hour of droning Latin for that.

“And then?” he asked.

The look Wamba gave him that time held clear exasperation. “Then we return to the castle for the feast.”

That was a very pleasant reward to look forward to. The king and his new bride knelt down on cushions before the altar, and Oscar smiled as he dropped to his own knees beside Wamba, and dutifully clasped his hands and bent his head to pray.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

The wedding feast was much more enjoyable than the wedding itself. Oscar had never been permitted to attend the Christmas feast in the great hall before, but he doubted any was ever as boisterous as this. A dozen extra tables had been carried in to fill the center of the hall, so there was hardly room to walk between them once the benches were filled, nobles seated back to back in long rows. Each place had been decorated with a bouquet of ivy and holly sprigs, bright red berries livening the room. A quartet of minstrels wandered the crowd in their fantastically garish habit, feathers in their caps and lutes in their hands as they serenaded the guests with a variety of songs.

The tables were laid with delicacies that never appeared at the servants’ dinner. While in the kitchens they ate humble pie, the great hall offered an embarrassment of freshly caught game. Oscar was transfixed by the mouthwatering sight of entire haunches of venison, artfully garnished pheasant, stuffed goose, and perfectly roasted suckling pig, its crisp skin cracking beneath the knife. Once the customary toasts were finally over, he set to this spread with a will, making sure to put a little of whatever he liked best onto Wamba’s plate beside him. Wamba laughed at each new portion, and went about his meal more sedately, keeping up a conversation with Lord Geoffrey and his daughter on his other side.

Ivanhoe and Rowena were seated with King Richard on the dais. His half of the high table was filled with his knights and a few people Oscar did not recognize, though Wamba informed him they were the king’s cousins. The other side held a number of foreign men who were either the brothers or accompanying dignitaries of the newly crowned Queen Agnes. In either case, her cousin King Philip of France had not deemed her wedding occasion enough to make the journey to England, in the end. The newlyweds departed early, once the main feast was done. They were accompanied by a pair of officials each, perhaps their witnesses, to complete one more wedding duty that Oscar had scarcely been able to believe when Alice had described it to him. The more Oscar learned of the royal wedding, the more deeply sympathetic to Agnes’s misery he became. He hoped for her sake that she would be able to find some comfort and happiness in London, even if it was not in her marriage bed.

Once the royals were departed, however, it was time to turn his attentions to lighter things, as empty trays were cleared to make room for a cornucopia of sweets. There were plum puddings, of course, but also trays of delicately sculpted marzipan, pear and custard pie, honeyed currant tarts, and something that Oscar did not recognize but smelled sharp and lovely. He immediately scooped out a generous helping onto his trencher and poked at it curiously with his spoon.

“Is that quince?”

Oscar looked over at Wamba, who peered at Oscar’s chosen treat with the fuzzy intensity of one who had consumed enough wine to be somewhat impaired but not enough that he does not realize it.

“I don’t know,” Oscar said. “Is it?”

“Let me see,” Wamba took Oscar’s spoon from his hand to lift a bite of the syrupy confection to his mouth. He closed his eyes, humming around the spoon.

Oscar’s throat was suddenly very dry. “Is it quince?” he rasped.

Wamba’s eyes opened, and he smiled at Oscar. “It is,” he said, and scooped up another bite.

“Hey!” Oscar yelped, and reached for the spoon. “That’s mine. Get your own!”

Wamba tucked it behind his back away from Oscar’s grasping hands, and tugged Oscar’s dish closer to him. “My trencher is full.”

“Because you didn’t eat your supper!” Oscar admonished.

Wamba smirked, and stole another bite of Oscar’s quince tart. “I ate a great deal of it. You’re the one who kept piling more on.”

“So I’m to be punished for my attentiveness, am I?” Oscar grumbled.

“You’ll get no sympathy from me,” Wamba said. “This predicament is entirely of your own making.” He completed his conquest of the trencher, elbowing his own aside to settle Oscar’s firmly in front of him.

“Betrayed for a tart,” Oscar laughed. “I should have known.”

As much as he teased Wamba for his weakness for sweets, Oscar loved to see him eating with such enjoyment, and was happy to concede the trencher. He would have shared it with him, had they not been in the middle of the great hall. Instead, he looked around, trying to spot someone to bring him another clean dish. Unable to catch any the eye of any of the servants, he pushed himself to his feet instead, weighed down somewhat by his very full belly. He edged his way between Lord Geoffrey, well into his cups, and another guest, toward the door that led down to the kitchens.

He poked his head out into the corridor, where tables had been prepared to place the food as it was brought up. There was no trencher there, but his eyes lit instead on something far more interesting. Trays of empty goblets were lined up like ranks of soldiers on the nearest table, and from the one beyond the warm, spicy scent of mulled wine tickled Oscar’s nose. He let it draw him into the corridor, and went to inspect the carafes of wine waiting for servants to carry them into the hall. He leaned down to breathe in the delicious aroma of cinnamon and cloves and wondered if they would mind him helping himself to one a little early.

Two warm palms came suddenly to rest on his hips. He startled, but relaxed with a quiet laugh when a soft kiss was pressed to the back of his neck. “I thought you were too enamored of your tart to follow me.”

“You are certainly more appetizing than anything on the tables.”

Oscar’s blood froze, at a very different voice than he expected. He whirled around, and his panicked stare met a pair of gray eyes that narrowed in predatory interest.

“Nicholas!” Oscar squeaked. “What are you doing?”

Nicholas’s hands were back on him without delay. One gripped Oscar’s waist, holding him in place, while the other brushed teasingly over the front of his trousers. “I think I have been most clear in my intentions,” he purred, “and judging by the welcome you gave me just now, it is well past time to abandon your false protests.”

Oscar’s hand snapped down to grab his wrist, holding his wandering touch still, and wondered what the consequences would be for fighting his way free. “I don’t know what you mean,” he croaked.

“Come now, Oscar,” Nicholas said, his voice soft and coaxing, “have we not played this game long enough?”

He leaned forward, his face very close to Oscar’s, and Oscar angled his body back as far as he could over the carafes in an ineffectual retreat, his hands clenched on the edge of the table to keep from toppling over and taking the wine with him. “I don’t want this,” he said.

“How do you know until you try?” Nicholas curved one hand around the back of Oscar’s head, holding him still. Trapped, Oscar closed his eyes and his mouth as tightly as he could, and braced himself for the inevitable.

“I will thank you to remove your hands.”

Oscar’s eyes flew open, and his head snapped to the side. Like a miracle, Wamba stood in the doorway, his hand clenched on the frame and a black glare on his face the like of which Oscar had never seen. His eyes were hard and cold, staring down the archivist. Nicholas released Oscar at last, his brows rising as he looked between them.

“Cedric,” he said. “Oh, I see. Yours, is he?”

“He is his own,” Wamba snapped, “and he has already made his displeasure with your advances clear. But if mine is the only objection you will respect, then yes, you should consider him spoken for.”

Nicholas raised both hands, and took another step away from Oscar. “Well, then,” he said, with forced levity, “you may consider me warned.”

He gave Oscar one last long look, before he sauntered past Wamba and back into the hall. Wamba turned to watch him go with a stony gaze. Oscar was still shaken, trying to unclench his hands enough to release the table. He rarely had to consider, anymore, how his station put him at a disadvantage if someone like Nicholas decided to impose his will. He had not felt so helpless since the day he was captured in the counting room and dragged before the king.

It had been Wamba to rescue him then, too, and more powerless at that time than even Oscar himself. That thought brought the warmth back to his limbs, enough to stand, and smile at his lover when Wamba turned to face Oscar at last. To Oscar’s surprise, he seemed more troubled than satisfied by his victory.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Oscar assured him. “I don’t much feel like returning to the feast, though.”

“No,” Wamba said quietly. “Nor I.”

So Oscar reached out and took his hand, uncaring of the fact that servants would be arriving any minute to carry in the wine. It was more important to have that contact. He clasped Wamba’s fingers tightly in his, and scooped up one of the carafes of wine in the other hand. “Come on.”

The fire in their chambers was lit, warming the library. Oscar did not know who had seen to it, but he was grateful as he set the wine down and pulled Wamba into a tight embrace. Wamba’s arms closed around his back in return, and he breathed a shaky sigh into Oscar’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Why?” Oscar asked, pulling away far enough to see his face. “You fought for me.”

“You were clearly not enjoying his attentions,” Wamba said stiffly.

It was such a transparent evasion that Oscar could not help but laugh. “Tell the truth. You were jealous.”

Wamba flushed, and looked away. “I did not like seeing him touch you.”

Oscar wrapped him up in his arms again, unbearably charmed by the admission. “That’s what it means to be jealous.”

“I did not mean to be,” Wamba paused, searching for a word, “proprietary.”

It was natural, Oscar supposed, that knowing what it was to be owned, Wamba would be hesitant to lay claim to him without his consent, no matter how willing Oscar might be. Oscar swallowed the lump in his throat and buried his nose in Wamba's hair. “You can say I’m yours,” he whispered. “It’s true.”

Wamba made a soft sound, and reached up to pull Oscar down for a kiss. Oscar went willingly, opening his mouth to welcome Wamba’s tongue even as he turned them around and took two careful steps back until he felt the couch against his legs. He sat, and pulled Wamba down after him to settle astride Oscar’s lap. His gentle hands cradled Oscar’s jaw as he licked tenderly into his mouth, the soothing touch driving away the last vestiges of the panic Nicholas had caused. Oscar wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist and simply held him, basking in the warmth of the kiss with no particular urgency toward anything more.

When Wamba finally pulled away, his mouth wet and red, Oscar took a deep breath and smiled up at him. “So that’s what quince tastes like.”

Wamba jerked with a startled laugh, and his lips tilted in his loveliest lopsided smile. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to have any.”

Oscar shrugged, grinning. “I’m sure it’s better this way.”

Wamba shook his head, his eyes soft and fond. He brushed his thumbs over Oscar’s cheeks and leaned in for another kiss, but paused, scant inches away, when a querulous peep interrupted them.

“What was that?” Oscar frowned.

Wamba bit his lip, and held Oscar’s head still when we tried to turn his head to look for the source of the noise. “I have something for you.”

“A gift?” Oscar asked, a warm curl of delight waking in his belly.

“Yes,” Wamba said. “It is Christmas, after all.”

Gently, Oscar took Wamba’s hands in his and pulled them from his face. “What is it?” he asked, though he respected Wamba’s wishes and kept his eyes on his lover.

Wamba wavered a moment longer, then he nodded and stood. “I’ll bring it.”

He went to his table, where a bulky shape that Oscar had completely failed to notice had appeared. It was draped in a thin blanket, though it betrayed the clearly rounded top of whatever was concealed beneath. Wamba picked it up carefully by the bottom edge and carried it over to Oscar, setting it on the low table before the fire.

“Where did that come from?” Oscar wondered aloud.

“I had some assistance,” Wamba admitted, sitting down beside Oscar. “You can look, if you like.”

Oscar did not hesitate, reaching out at once to draw the cloth aside. His mouth dropped open at what he found. It was a delicate wicker cage, the thin stalks bent up to form a spacious dome, and inside it the most peculiar bird Oscar had ever seen. It had tawny wings and a soft round belly covered in cream colored down. Curious black eyes peered from a dark mask in a butter yellow face, topped by two tiny tufted horns.

“You bought me a bird?” Oscar asked. The bird tilted its little head, fixing Oscar with one eye, then the other, and peeped again as they each took the other’s measure.

“You said they were for lovers." When Oscar was finally able to look away from the unusual creature in the cage, he found Wamba’s face alight in a burning blush. He could not quite meet Oscar’s eyes, so Oscar cupped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close for a kiss instead.

“I did,” he murmured, grinning against Wamba’s lips.

The bird whistled a delightful little trill. Oscar watched it hop about on its perch, and smiled. “He’s a talkative fellow.”

“He’s a lark,” Wamba said. “I thought he could keep you company while I’m away.”

Oscar’s heart ached, to be reminded that they had only a fortnight, the length of the king’s wedding celebrations, before Wamba would be taken from him. He swallowed, and asked, “Are we going to release him?”

“I would like to,” Wamba said. “When I return.”

“Then that will be something for us all to look forward to,” Oscar said. He watched the bird’s antics, smiling despite his melancholy. “How did you manage this?”

“Colin was kind enough to keep him for me,” Wamba said. “He has his own cell with the scribes.”

“He’s quite a dutiful student, to tolerate such a guest at your request,” Oscar laughed, feeling much more charitable toward Colin than he had in weeks. “Did you name him?”

“I thought you might like to choose,” Wamba said, one brow tilting up expectantly.

Oscar considered the bird, trying to decide on an appropriate name. “He has those horns,” he pointed out. “Do you suppose he’s a little devil?”

“Do you think they’re horns?” Wamba mused. “They look rather like a crown to me.”

Oscar laughed. “A little king, then? Perhaps he is one of the magi. Shall we call him Caspar?”

“He’s a bit early for Epiphany,” Wamba said, though the smile he turned on Oscar was pleased.

“But look, he’s even brought his frankincense with him,” Oscar pointed to the bright yellow face.

“Alright,” Wamba said, laughing warmly, “Caspar he is.”

Caspar did not seem to think much of his christening. He turned his back on them, and waddled across his perch to peck at one of the wicker stems of his cage. Oscar watched, bemused, until he remembered suddenly that their exchange of gifts was not yet complete.

“Oh! I have something for you, too.” He jumped up and went to retrieve it from where he had hidden it beneath his old cot in the corner. He carried the small wooden box to Wamba and placed it in his hands. “It’s not much,” he said apologetically.

“Thank you, Oscar,” Wamba said, smiling at him though he had not even opened the gift yet.

It was Oscar’s turn to blush, while Wamba finally lifted the lid and pulled out a bundle of dark blue wool. He unrolled it across his lap, until he could hold it up and judge its shape.

“A nightshirt?”

Oscar nodded, his cheeks burning. “You only have those old linen ones,” he said sheepishly. “I thought you should have a proper one. To keep you warm. While I can't.”

Wamba looked up at him, his face stricken. “I will miss you, Oscar,” he said softly.

It was a relief, to know that Wamba was as troubled by the prospect of their separation as he was. Wamba betrayed so little of his true feelings, it was easy to forget, sometimes, that he felt just as deeply as Oscar, if not more. He held himself tightly in check, giving precedence to Oscar’s needs, or to his duty, but slowly the freedom that was his at last had begun to loosen the chains on his emotions as well. As Wamba learned to let himself acknowledge his fears and his desires, even such petty emotions as jealousy, and to act on them, Oscar only loved him more.

Wamba pulled Oscar down to thank him for the nightshirt with a kiss. So Oscar asked him to wear it while he knelt between his lover’s thighs and sucked him, slow and leisurely until his jaw ached and his knees were numb, and Wamba climaxed with such force that he fell unconscious for several minutes, before he recovered enough to return the favor. Later, they fell into bed together and twined their bodies as though they could disappear inside one another, as Christmas ended in one single peal of the tower bell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-consensual sexual contact and non-graphic consensual m/m sex.
> 
> Caspar is an English shore lark. You can see one [here](http://www.birdwatch.co.uk/userfiles/image/Birdwatch/Features/Shore%20Lark%202_Steve%20Young.jpg).


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

If the weeks before the king’s wedding had seemed to drag on interminably, the fortnight that followed passed far too quickly for Oscar’s liking, and before he knew it he was standing in the snowy yard watching Wamba strap a pack to his saddle and wondering where the last of their time had gone. A thin flurry of icy flakes fell from the steel gray sky, swirling in the frigid wind.

“Are you sure it’s safe to travel in this?” he asked, unable to disguise the hopeful note in his voice.

Wamba’s smile was understanding. “Wilfred does not think it will cause us too much trouble, if it stays like this.”

“What about the lady? Isn’t there a chance she’ll take ill?” Oscar asked, gesturing to Rowena. She was dressed in a heavy woolen kirtle and fur-lined cloak, her hair done up in practical braids.

“I would not let her hear you say that, if I were you,” Wamba chuckled. “Everyone in this company is well accustomed to travel in such conditions. There’s no need to worry.”

Oscar sighed, and looked at his boots. “I wish I could go with you.”

“Now that would be a hindrance,” Wamba teased.

Oscar snorted, amused despite himself. “I suppose I won’t mind a few weeks without your constant mocking.”

“You’ll not be lonely with Caspar about,” Wamba assured him, “and I will be back before you know it.” He took a step closer to Oscar, and lifted a hand to brush it across Oscar’s cheek in a quick caress.

Here under so many eyes, Oscar could not embrace him as he wished, so he simply nodded. “Safe journey.”

He stepped back to let Wamba mount his horse, and watched with his heart in his throat as the portcullis rose and the vanguard spurred their horses into motion. The king followed them, with Ivanhoe close behind. Wamba looked back, just as he followed Ivanhoe through the gate, and waved. Oscar lifted a hand in return, watching until he passed beyond the wall and out of sight. Then his hand dropped and he simply stood, immobile, while the last of the soldiers disappeared.

It was the moment he had been dreading for months, counting down the days. Oscar let the awfulness of it settle over him. Then he took a breath, and began a new count. The king had estimated three weeks for the journey. One week to York, then a week to settle their business and finally one more to return. Twenty-one days, when Oscar had only once spent even a full day out of Wamba’s company since he they had met. Still, this was only that one day, strung together many times over, and he only need survive one at a time. He held tight to that thought, as he turned to make his way back to the duties that prevented him from leaving London. He had not seen Nicholas since the night of the wedding feast, and he was not looking forward to facing him again, but his reprieve was over and it was time to fulfill his promise to the king.

The archive was bitterly cold, purposely without a hearth to prevent fire. It was darker than usual, as well, due to the gloomy weather. Ice pelted against the narrow glass windows as the storm outside worsened, and Oscar spared a worried thought for Wamba while he made his way through the shelves, to the center of the room. There, a cluster of large candles cast a golden glow over the table, creating an island of warmth in the cold room.

Nicholas was there, bent over a large tome with a quill in hand. He had a mug of something warm beside him, which steamed gently. A carafe and second mug sat nearby. He seemed oddly at peace, lost in his work, looking back and forth between the book before him and one beside it. Oscar stopped at the edge of the shelves, and watched him write, his strokes quick and skillful.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”

Oscar startled, to realize that he had been noticed. Nicholas glanced over at him, with a faint smirk.

“Is that your idea of an apology?” Oscar shot back.

The smirk fell from Nicholas’s face. He looked back at the book for a minute, then carefully set his quill aside. “Come sit down, will you?”

Oscar decided to do as he asked, and moved to take the seat across from him. As he sat, Nicholas looked up, and Oscar was startled to discover an ugly purple bruise spreading across his jaw.

“What happened there?” he asked.

“Oh, this?” Nicholas asked, pointing to the bruise. “I took a tumble from a horse yesterday during a hunt.”

“You? On a hunt?” Oscar scoffed.

Nicholas’s smirk returned, though there was something very weary about his bearing. “Now, see, that’s a sensible reaction. If only my brothers were half as clever.” He reached for the carafe to refill his mug, and offered the second to Oscar.

Oscar took it, and sat back in his chair, bringing it to his nose for a curious sniff. It was some sort of herb infused water. “You weren’t so confident in my intellect a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, well.” Nicholas blew out a quiet sigh, watching Oscar across the table. “I fear we got off on the wrong foot, you and I.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Yes, alright,” Nicholas said, rolling his eyes, “ _Mea culpa_ , and all that. The point is, I would like to clear the slate and see if we can rectify certain misunderstandings.”

“Such as you misunderstanding the meaning of a refusal?”

“You’re not one to let a man off easily, are you?” Nicholas said with a rueful laugh. “In my defense, you never actually said you weren’t interested until the feast. You let me touch you for weeks without protest. I think I might be forgiven for feeling emboldened after a generous dose of wine.”

“You didn’t think that the fact I was ignoring you might mean I wasn’t interested?”

“Not necessarily,” Nicholas said quietly. His lip quirked up in a mirthless curl. “I can tell, you know. I can always tell when a man has certain inclinations.”

“Like you do,” Oscar challenged him.

“Obviously,” Nicholas shrugged. “I thought you might be conflicted about it, or in need of an way to explore it. I am not subtle, and you intrigued me. Especially when you stopped pushing me away. I had no idea you were already so well versed, and spoken for no less, or I would have respected that.”

“It's not something I tell people on first meeting.”

“Nor third, apparently, even when you might save them a little embarrassment.”

“Something tells me you’re nearly impervious to embarrassment.”

Nicholas smiled. “Nearly.”

“How is it you can be so carefree about it? Aren’t you worried someone will find out?”

“I see you haven’t spent any significant time in an abbey,” Nicholas said, staring thoughtfully into his mug.

“No,” Oscar admitted. “Why?”

“My father did not plan to give me to the church. He was very proud of fathering only boys. He wanted a vulgar little gang of his own. It was only after I had proven I could not become a true man that he sent me to the abbey. I was far from the only one.”

“A true man?” Oscar echoed incredulously.

“As he defined it,” Nicholas said, a bitter little smile on his lips, “which did not include being discovered in the hayloft with a stable boy.”

“So he sent you to live where there were only men?”

Nicholas’s smiled turned genuine, sharing Oscar’s humor at the irony. “I’m sure he realized his mistake in hindsight, but he was hardly the first father to think a regimen of constant prayer and stiff beatings could cure a sinful nature.”

Oscar frowned at that. “What? They beat you?”

“It’s all part of learning, isn’t it?” Nicholas shrugged. “The church’s view is that wisdom is best imparted on the end of a rod. You’re educated. Surely this was your experience as well.”

Oscar shook his head. “Cedric was my teacher.”

“Really?” Nicholas tilted his head curiously. “He never beat your lessons into you?”

“Of course not,” Oscar scoffed, offended on Wamba’s behalf. The very idea was ridiculous.

Nicholas hummed, a slow smile returning. “That’s a shame. It might have done you some good.”

“Like it did you?” Oscar asked.

Nicholas chuckled. “I’m contrary.”

Oscar laughed as well, and finally tried the drink Nicholas had given him. It was flowery and a little bitter, but pleasantly warm. “How did you end up here, then?”

“Why, hadn’t anyone told you?” Nicholas said archly. “I’m terrifically clever, and can read more languages than anyone else you’re likely to meet. It’s the only reason I wasn’t banished from the abbey years ago.”

Oscar felt his brows rise, grudgingly impressed. “So what happened?”

“When they couldn’t tame me, they started looking for ways to get rid of me. They found a very neat solution, don’t you think? The abbey did the king a service and they never need fear I might return. Court archivist is an appointment for life, after all.”

He was smiling, but Oscar could not help but imagine how such constant disapproval had affected Nicholas. Suddenly, his provocative and self-aggrandizing attitude upon assuming his role as archivist made much more sense. So many people trying to change him had only hardened him, made him belligerently and unapologetically himself, and desperate to prove that this was a worthy thing to be.

“The king had a long list to choose from, you know,” Oscar said, “and he chose you. I would think he would be proud of you.”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

Nicholas scoffed, waving a hand at Oscar. “It’s not the sort of accomplishment he is able to respect, or even understand. He would have been more impressed if I had actually managed to land a bolt in the hart I was aiming for yesterday.”

“Or managed to stay on your horse.”

“Or that,” Nicholas agreed, “but what about you? Is your family proud of you?”

Oscar shrugged. “My brother’s a cooper. He lives in Cheapside. He’s just happy I’m not dead or in prison.”

“Really?” Nicholas stared at Oscar, surprised. “A commoner, and now the king regards your talents so highly he gives you a role like this? I must say, your story is much more fascinating than I would have guessed.”

“As is yours,” Oscar noted.

“Yes, well,” Nicholas said dismissively, “regardless of where we have come from we are here now. You may have the knowledge of the archive, but I am the best man for this job and I will prove it.”

“You still need my help,” Oscar said. “If you want to be done anytime in this lifetime, at least.”

Nicholas grimaced. “As much as I hate to admit it, you are correct.”

“So why don’t you explain it to me?”

“What?”

“What you’re trying to do,” Oscar said. “You said I wouldn’t understand, but you haven’t given me a chance.”

Nicholas tapped the edge of his mug thoughtfully on the table, regarding Oscar with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Then he nodded. “Alright. Tell me, when a report arrives from a certain estate, what do you do?”

“I update the estate record,” Oscar said, “then the shire record if there are any important changes.”

“What about the tax record? The tribute record?”

“Those, too.”

“Do you see the problem?” Nicholas asked. “You are trying to maintain consistency between duplicate records in four different parts of this room.”

“But taxes are collected separately from tribute,” Oscar said. “Those records have to be approved by the king’s steward.”

“Yes, yes, but look here,” Nicholas turned the books he had been working on, tapping a page. “Taxes and tribute are determined based on the wealth of each estate, yet the tax records and estate records are kept in separate corners. To make any comparison requires at least two volumes, more in the case of multiple estates.”

“Why not keep them arranged by shire, then?”

“No, no. It’s still too complicated. Shire means little when you look at the disposal of land. Take Lord Ivanhoe, for example. I know you are familiar with him.” He shot Oscar a cheeky grin. “He has multiple lands in Derbyshire, but those estates have separate records. His lands in Nottinghamshire, awarded most recently, have yet another record of their own, and the tax records reside in yet another volume altogether, due to the arbitrary division of geography. By uniting them, we can easily maintain a clear picture of his holdings, and the commensurate tribute, with a single volume.”

Oscar stared at him, at his expectant face, and an amazed laugh burst from his lips. “That’s ingenious,” he said, and leaned forward to look at what Nicholas has written, “but how will you remember which estates belong to which nobles? There are dozens of families, and hundreds of estates.”

Nicholas snapped his fingers, and picked up a third volume from the table. He opened it and dropped it before Oscar with a flourish. “By an index, of course, along with that most handy map that my predecessor so diligently kept. With those at the center of the archive, the rest becomes a very straightforward record, arranged around family trees. Now do you see?”

“I do,” Oscar admitted with a laugh. “You’ll be able to find and update everything at once, and catch any shuffling of assets. It’s going to take a lot of work to reorganize it, though. You’re talking about copying out nearly everything all over again.”

“Well,” Nicholas said, “as Cedric is not about to distract you, I expect to be finished with this by the time the king returns.”

His expression was aloof, but for once Oscar could see right through the pretense. Nicholas was offering him a distraction while Wamba was away. Oscar did not think he would appreciate thanks, so he smirked instead. “You’d better not be planning to put this all on me now that you’ve explained it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Nicholas grinned. “At the very least, your handwriting is far too poor to be entrusted with the index.”

“As though yours was any better after only a few years of practice.”

“Of course it was better, Oscar,” Nicholas said. “Now get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of physical abuse of a child.


	46. Chapter 46

Thanks to Nicholas and his bold plan to upend the entire archive, Oscar’s days were largely bearable. The archivist kept him occupied with seemingly endless tasks and a steady torrent of droll chatter that allowed Oscar no pause to contemplate his melancholy.

The nights were a different matter. He had become accustomed to being parted from Wamba when they were both away at their respective duties, but the lack of him in their bed was more devastating than he had expected. The first night, he tossed and twisted beneath the blankets in search of a pose that was tolerable, but none yielded any comfort. He wrapped his arms around Wamba’s pillow, trying to find solace in the lingering traces of his scent there, but without his warmth it only served to mock Oscar with the reminder of what he could not have. What rest he was able to snatch was fitful, and he rose at dawn with his heart caught somewhere between relief and despair.

The second night, he sought a different solution. The moment his work was finished, he went to the kitchens in search of Alice. She was chatting with one of the older scullions by the fire, lounging beside him while he scrubbed pots. Across the room, a group of chambermaids and scullery maids seated around the heavy table watched, whispering amongst themselves. Emma was one of them. Her eyes met Oscar’s briefly, and she raised her brows at him, but he had no patience for her disdain, so he shook his head and walked pointedly over to Alice. She noticed him as he approached, and turned to face him, with a slow smile and narrow eyes.

“Oscar,” she said, brushing long golden locks back over her shoulders. “Do you need me?”

The scullion glared at Oscar, resenting the loss of her attention, but he could not feel any remorse for his actions. “Is there any wine about?”

Alice laughed, head thrown back as though she had never heard anything so amusing. “Of course there is.” She laid a hand on his arm, darting a glance across the room at the gathered maids.

“Do you have time?”

“For you, always." Her hand slid down his forearm to take hold of his, and their shoulders brushed as she led him back toward the storerooms. Oscar could feel the concentrated gaze of the maids on him as they passed, but he refused to acknowledge them. Instead he followed Alice to their usual hideaway and took a cup of wine when she offered it to him.

“Now,” she said, sitting down close at his side, “tell me what I can do for you.”

The warmth of her body next to his, and the concern in her voice, melted some of the frustrated anger inside him, leaving only sadness. He took a long drink from his cup, and sighed. “Is there any new gossip?”

She giggled and tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Did you hear about Mitchell in the stables?”

“No. What about him?”

He listened, as she told him about Mitchell, and then about Elena, and then something about the steward consulting with witches, letting her voice lull him while his thoughts grew blearier. Gradually, his spine curved and he slumped back against the rough burlap of the sacks that made their couch. He floated in a haze for a while, until he realized Alice had fallen silent.

He forced open one of his eyes. She was leaning over him, her rosy face very close. “What’s the matter, Oscar?” she whispered. He could feel her breath on his chin.

“I can’t sleep,” he confessed.

“Because Cedric is gone?”

Defeated by the misery of that pronouncement, he could only nod.

“I would think it’s a good thing for you.”

“What?” He frowned, and sat up. “Why?”

She backed away, and reached for the wineskin to refill his cup. “Well, isn’t it nice to have a little time out from under his boot?”

Oscar stared at her. There was no hint of humor in her expression, only the faintest veil of contempt. He shook his head, and considered that he might have chosen the wrong person to confide in about his loneliness. She had made her feelings on Wamba and on his relationship with Oscar very clear, after all. He drained his cup again rather than respond, and held it out for more.

She obliged him with another generous pour. “There’s nothing you can do about it. You might as well look at the bright side.”

“And what’s that?” he asked, drinking deep once more.

“You can take anyone to bed that you like, and he’ll be none the wiser.”

Oscar choked, and only just swallowed in time to avoid spitting the wine on the floor. “What? Why would you even suggest that?”

“There’s no loss in allowing yourself to have a little fun,” Alice shrugged. “What he doesn’t know can’t do him any harm.”

“But I would know,” Oscar said darkly. “He deserves better than that.”

“For heaven’s sake, Oscar,” she sighed, “he’s probably taking up with all sorts while he has the chance.”

That rang so patently false as to be laughable. Oscar snorted. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Wamba had remained faithful to a dead man for years. He would certainly not stray while he had a living lover waiting for him.

“Alright,” Alice said, a soothing note in her voice and a careful a hand on his arm, “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m wrong.”

“You are.” Oscar scowled into his cup. There was still wine there, but his stomach had turned sour. He put it aside, and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He swayed, and stumbled.

“What are you doing?” Alice asked. She gripped his arms to steady him.

“Going to bed,” he said, pulling free of her grasp to lurch toward the door.

“Let me help you." She tried to take his arm again, but he pulled away. He staggered into the corridor, and back through the kitchen, escaping her presence as quickly as he was able. It was dark, and the fire banked, so there was no one to witness his thoroughly undignified return home. He tumbled into bed fully clothed, and fell instantly into pitch black darkness.

He was late to the archives in the morning, and suspected he still smelled strongly of wine when he finally arrived. Nicholas wrinkled his nose when Oscar appeared, assessing him with a critical eye. “Looking for wisdom at the bottom of a barrel, were you? I hope you’ll trust me when I say that is a guaranteed road only to embarrassment.” He smirked. “Though, it does also help one forget past embarrassment. Wine is a rather circular vice that way.”

Oscar could not find a retort. He sighed, and fell into his chair to pick up where he had left off the day before, squinting at the point of his quill to keep his letters from wandering off course. Nicholas took no pity on him, and forced him to finish another two records before he let him go.

Exhausted, Oscar could only fall down before the fire. He sat on the floor and leaned back against the couch, nursing a stubborn headache and a solitary supper. Solitary, that was, except for Caspar, who burbled and chattered at him as he hopped back and forth across his perch. As Wamba had intended, Caspar was indeed a mercy. Oscar found himself smiling reluctantly at the little bird’s spirited capering. He regarded Caspar through the bars of his cage. “I suppose you want out of there, don’t you?”

Caspar whistled, and fluttered up against the top of the cage before dropping to the perch once more. It was pitiful to watch.

“I know the feeling,” Oscar told him. “We’re both trapped until he returns.” He reached out, hand hovering for one moment, before he flipped the hook holding the cage closed and swung the door open.

Caspar hopped at once to the edge of the door, tiny claws gripping the wicker tight. He rested there a moment, yellow head tilting to and fro as he surveyed this new, wider world. Then he leapt into the air, darting to the very top shelf of the bookshelves. He paused there, and stretched his neck to trill a happy little tune.

“You’d best behave, or I won’t let you out again until Wamba gets back.” He ignored the problem of how he was going to get Caspar back into the cage to begin with, and ate his stew while he watched to the bird explore the room. Caspar fluttered briefly against the window, then came to land on the desk, pecking curiously at one of the quills lying there.

“Destroy that, and I’ll be taking one of yours as a replacement,” Oscar warned him. Caspar gave him an unimpressed look, and fluttered off to examine another shelf of the bookcase instead. Oscar shook his head, and wondered if he was going mad, conversing with a bird.

A tentative knock at the door startled him from his maudlin thoughts. Oscar hauled himself to his feet and approached the door, trying to guess who could be visiting him at this time of night. None of the possibilities seemed particularly appealing, and he stood for a moment and considered not answering it.

The knock came again, even softer than before. Resigning himself to yet more annoyance, Oscar sighed, and opened the door. To his surprise, it was Colin who stood in the corridor, with two scrolls clutched in his arms and tear stains on his face.

“Colin?” Oscar blinked at him. “What’s the matter?”

Colin’s sandy head bowed, and he sniffed. “I didn’t want to bother you,” he said, “but I saw the light from the fire.”

“I was just eating supper,” Oscar told him. “What do you need?”

“Do you think you could help me with my notes?” Colin’s voice was very small, with none of the enthusiasm Oscar remembered.

“What?” Oscar frowned. “I don’t know how much I can…”

A shrill chirp behind him reminded Oscar suddenly of the danger. He spun around, and found Caspar on the back of the couch, eyeing the door hopefully with his little black horns raised.

“Come in. Quickly.” Oscar ushered Colin in with one arm while he kept his eyes fixed firmly on Caspar, who hopped forward to the edge of the couch, poised to make an escape.

Oscar slammed the door shut, just as the bird made his dash, and Caspar veered away to land on the mantel instead. He peeped reproachfully at Oscar, and dipped his tail, dropping a wet little ball to spatter on the flagstones.

“How do you like that?” Oscar snorted. “He probably picked you because you were the most aggravating.”

Colin was watching him with a strange look on his face, as though he were trying decide whether he was allowed to laugh.

Oscar waved at the table. “Have a seat. I’m just going to deal with this little miscreant.” He went to fetch a rag to scrape up Caspar’s mess. He threw the rag into the fire, and turned to find Colin sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch, still hugging his scrolls.

“What’s the matter?” Oscar dropped back to the floor before his cold stew, and looked up at Colin expectantly. “You want to show me something?”

Colin nodded, and hesitantly extended the scrolls to Oscar. He took them from the boy’s trembling hands, suddenly concerned. Colin had never been afraid of him before.

“What happened?” he asked, setting the scrolls aside.

Colin stared at his knees. “I made a mistake. Gilbert wasn’t happy.”

Oscar had been surprised that Gilbert had even agreed to take over the tribunal once more, after he had resigned while Wamba and Oscar were at Rotherwood. King Richard still believed that he was the next most qualified man to fill the post, however, and had convinced him to do what was needed. Oscar had never worked with him, and had no idea how demanding he might be, but from Colin’s fear, his wrath must be terrible indeed.

“Did he hurt you?” Oscar asked, as soothingly as he could. Wamba was more skilled at offering such comfort, but he was beyond reach, and Oscar was clearly not the only one who suffered for his absence.

“I got a thrashing,” Colin whispered, “but I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought you might be able to tell me.”

Oscar hissed out a breath, and patted the boy’s knee. “That’s a pity,” he said sympathetically, while silently cursing Gilbert. Colin was nothing but eager and sincere, and whatever mistake he might have made was surely not a result of laziness. “Are you hurt? Do you need to see the physician?”

Colin flushed, and shook his head frantically. “No, it’s just sore.”

“Alright, then,” Oscar said. “Let’s see if we can’t find a way to keep that from happening again.”

He almost invited Colin to join him on the floor, when he remembered that with only the thin covering of the rug it might be uncomfortable for the boy. He stood instead, and went to snatch the pillow off of the cot in the corner. When he turned, Colin was smiling. Oscar paused, and followed his gaze to Caspar, who had roosted down on the mantel in a puffed ball of feathers. Inspired, Oscar snatched a squat clay jar from one of the bookshelves.

“Here,” he said to Colin, “I know what will get him down.”

He threw the pillow down on the floor and gestured for Colin to sit. The boy slid off the couch carefully, and settled beside Oscar.

Oscar handed him the jar. “Show him one of those.”

Colin pulled off the lid, and peered into the jar. He laughed when he saw what was inside. He looked up at Oscar, who nodded.

“Go ahead.”

Colin reached into the jar and pulled out a wriggling white mealworm. He placed it on the table, and tapped the wood to get Caspar’s attention. The bird lifted his head, blinking at them. He must have caught sight of the worm, for he stood and whistled curiously.

“That’s right,” Colin called. “Come and get it.”

Caspar fluttered his wings, sidled back and forth a few times, then swooped down to land on top of the cage on the table. His beady eyes stared intently at his prey for a moment, before he dropped to the table and snapped it up in his tiny beak. He swallowed it down, and looked expectantly at Colin.

Colin plucked another worm from the jar and held it out to him. Caspar pecked it from his fingers that time, and swayed closer to poke his head into the mouth of the jar. Colin laughed and quickly snatched it out of reach. “Greedy,” he scolded the bird.

Oscar slid the cover back into place. “He’s had enough for today. Any more and he’ll grow so fat he won’t be able to fly.”

“It’s nice that you let him out of his cage.” Colin grinned at him, his good humor restored.

Oscar returned his smile. “Why don’t you show me these notes of yours?”

Nodding, Colin rolled out his scroll on the table. Oscar shooed Caspar away to make room. He took the scroll from Colin, reading over the notes. They were organized just as he had shown Colin, detailed facts of the matters laid out first, with specific notes on each argument, and even some observations on tone of voice, demeanor, or other clues toward the mindset of the witnesses.

“He thrashed you for this?” Oscar asked incredulously. He could see nothing wrong with the work.

Colin nodded, glum. “He said I missed the details.”

“What details? Are these his notes?” Oscar reached for the other scroll, but Colin shook his head.

“Those are mine from yesterday. They weren’t any good either.”

“Doesn’t he take notes?” Oscar asked.

“No,” Colin mumbled. “He says mine should be enough, but he won’t tell me what I missed.”

Oscar had a very strong suspicion that there was nothing wrong with these notes at all, and Gilbert had merely found a convenient target for his frustration with the tribunal. He could not say that to Colin, however, who was looking for his help. So he wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders instead, and wracked his brain for something that would be of use.

“Here, try this,” he said. “Why don’t you describe the disputes to me, and we’ll see if you remember anything else.”

They stayed there for an hour or so, long enough that Caspar had gone back to sleep, perched atop his cage. Colin did indeed recall several details that had not been captured on his scroll, and they added these into the notes. None of them was of any real significance, but Colin seemed heartened by the process, so Oscar encouraged him to carry on to the end.

When they were done, he rolled Colin’s scrolls for him, and handed them over with a smile. "See if you can do that tomorrow before you give them to Gilbert.”

“Thank you,” Colin’s smile was watery.

Oscar gripped his shoulder and gave him a little shake. “You can come and see me again, Colin. Anytime.”

Colin ducked his head, and said, very softly, “I hope Cedric comes back soon.”

Oscar huffed out a breath, and patted Colin again.

“So do I.”


	47. Chapter 47

Oscar could not help but worry for Colin over the following days, though the boy did not return to see him. He hoped this meant that Colin had been successful in placating his taskmaster, and focused what energy he had on satisfying his own. Nicholas was actually quite engaging company, once Oscar grew accustomed to his acerbic wit and was able to match it in kind. Oscar ignored the urge to drown his sorrows in wine when Wamba’s chambers felt particularly dark and lonely. He counted down the days instead, each more painful than the last, until there was only one week left, until he had only seven days more to wait before he could see Wamba again.

That number returned a bit of cheer to his heart, the greater part of his trial behind him. He repeated it to himself while he sorted through one of Nicholas’s piles of mangled parchment for a missing tax record, and wondered if Wamba might already be on his way back to London.

“Did you find it?” Nicholas interrupted his thoughts, standing over Oscar’s shoulder and tapping one impatient foot.

“It would be much simpler to find what you need if you hadn’t jumbled it all together like this,” Oscar said pointedly.

“I know what’s in every stack,” Nicholas said. “I told you exactly where to find that one, didn’t I?”

“You’ve yet to be proven right on that count.” Oscar threw aside yet another sheet that was not the one he sought. “You could have avoided this if you had told me what you were doing from the start.”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about now. What’s done is done. This will all be sorted soon enough, and you won’t need to trouble yourself over it again.”

“If by soon enough you mean next Christmas, then I agree.”

“You really are quite a grump,” Nicholas chided him. “It’s not charming in the least. I don’t know how Cedric tolerates you.”

Oscar looked at the sheet in his hand, and turned his head to smirk up at Nicholas. “I don’t give up easily.” He handed the record up over his shoulder. “Here. Can I get back to my work now?”

Nicholas snatched the parchment, and looked it over to confirm it was what he wanted. He nodded, and tilted one brow at Oscar. “Exactly where I said it would be.”

“Yes, you’re very clever.” Oscar rolled his eyes, and pushed himself to his feet, brushing at his dusty knees.

“Best you remember it,” Nicholas said, as he swept back to the table.

“As though you would let me forget.”

Nicholas laughed at that, his grey eyes narrowed to slits. The sound of the door opening interrupted whatever response he had planned, and he looked over expectantly as Alice appeared with a tray bearing two plates and a covered pitcher in her arms. She glanced over at Oscar, a tentative smile on her lips, but he looked away, as he had done every day since their conversation two weeks prior. He was still not quite ready to forgive her for the half-remembered slights against Wamba.

“Your supper, my lord,” she said, and Nicholas waved her over to the table.

“Excellent!” Nicholas set his papers aside, making room for her to serve him.

“There you are,” Alice said. “Should I cover yours, Oscar?”

“No need, thanks.” Oscar did not look her way, making a show of rearranging the pile of parchment he had been searching, until she left.

It was only then that he went to join Nicholas, who was reading as he ate. Oscar settled in his chair, and reached for his spoon. The sound of the door opening again stopped him. He waited, his hand hovering in the air over his spoon, and wondered if Alice had returned. There was a long moment of silence, but no one appeared through the shelves.

Nicholas waved a hand in the direction of the entrance. “Go and see who that is, will you?”

“Yes, alright,” Oscar pushed himself up and navigated the shelves. He stopped short, his mouth dropping open, when he saw who had come. Queen Agnes was draped in a heavy gown of blue and red brocade, and her dark hair was gathered beneath a modest wimple. Her maidservant hovered behind her.

Oscar stood stunned for a moment, then shook himself and sketched a quick bow. “Your majesty. Can I do something for you?”

She looked him over with an assessing eye. “I was told you have some things to interest me.”

“Me?” Oscar said, while his brows climbed to his hair. “I don’t understand, my lady.”

She frowned at him, and he had a moment of panic that he had said something insulting.

“For goodness sake, Oscar, let her in.” Nicholas appeared suddenly at Oscar’s side, a pleasant smile on his face. He bowed deeply, and said something that made Oscar frown, the words oddly garbled.

The queen’s face lightened at once, a small laugh in her throat as she extended her hand. Nicholas took it in his own, and said something else before placing a quick kiss on her fingers.

She responded, in the same strange tongue, which Oscar now realized must be French. He watched, dumbfounded, as Nicholas continued to work his charms on the lady, winning a true laugh from her for something he said that included a sly sidelong glance at Oscar. While he was sure he was being maligned, Oscar reined in his annoyance, standing still and folding his hands behind his back to avoid causing any further offense.

The queen gestured with an elegant hand at the shelves, and Nicholas held out his arm to her, and guided her through the narrow paths that led to the table. Agnes’s maid and Oscar followed behind. Nicholas pulled out his own chair and offered it to the lady. Oscar quickly stepped forward to clear away the dishes, piling them with his own on the tray.

Agnes said something, a question, and Nicholas nodded, another stream of foreign words flowing from his lips. Though Oscar could not understand, he could see how naturally it came to Nicholas. It was amazing to witness. They conversed at length, while Oscar and the maid stood silent, until at last Nicholas nodded and looked over at him.

“Keep her majesty company for a minute, will you?”

“What?” Oscar jumped, his heart leaping into a gallop. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch something,” Nicholas said. “It will only take a minute.”

He breezed back into the shelves, toward the back of the room where they had stored all of the volumes that did not relate directly to the records.

Oscar stared at the queen after he was gone. “I… Um…” he stuttered.

She tilted her head, cool eyes on him. “You have good luck to learn from such a master.”

“Oh,” Oscar said, unsure how to respond. “I suppose you’re right.”

The queen frowned at this feeble response, and Oscar's whole body began to feel very warm. Fortunately, Nicholas returned then, with four thin vellum books in his hand. He handed them over to the lady one by one, presumably explaining them as he went. She smiled, and rose, saying something else that made Nicholas bow again. She handed the books to her maid, and then she was gone, waving off Nicholas’s offer to see her out.

Oscar waited until the door closed before he turned and demanded, “What was that?”

“That was French,” Nicholas said, confirming his suspicions.

“You speak French?”

“Of course,” Nicholas said. “And Latin, naturally, as well as Greek, Spanish and a dialect of Old Saxon.”

Oscar gaped at him. “How did you learn all those languages?”

“As anyone learns anything.” Nicholas smirked and tapped his finger on Oscar’s forehead. “I studied.”

Oscar shook his head at the flippant reply, growing irritated. “So what did she want?”

“She wanted the books we have in French, to offer a bit of a diversion in her own language.” Nicholas returned to his seat, pulling his papers back in front of him.

Oscar remained where he stood. “We have books in French?”

“We certainly do,” Nicholas nodded. “Some of the rarest volumes I have had the pleasure to come across, in fact.”

“Where did they come from?”

Nicholas looked up at him, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Why, they are the very volumes you were so quick to dismiss as useless. My predecessor compiled a priceless collection up on that dusty shelf. I gave her a few of the shorter ones. The should keep her occupied until the rest are delivered.”

“I suppose you'll want me to take them somewhere?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I will take them to her later, when I join her for supper.”

Oscar’s brow rose again. “A private meal with the queen? You’d best be careful you don’t cause a scandal and lose your head.”

“Please,” Nicholas scoffed. “His majesty would never believe such rumors. He knows a lady’s virtue is never in danger in my presence.”

It was a confirmation of the curiosity Oscar had been nursing since their meeting with King Richard. He sat in his chair and leaned forward on his elbows to watch Nicholas closely. “So he does know about you.”

Nicholas met his eyes squarely. “It would be a miracle if he did not.”

“You tried to seduce him, didn’t you?” Oscar asked, gleefully certain that he was correct.

“A man that powerful?” Nicholas shrugged. “I would be a fool not to try.”

“He turned you down?”

“Many of them do. It was no great surprise.”

His voice was nonchalant, but there was something heavy underneath, so Oscar decided not to press him any further, and asked instead, “Are all of those books French?”

Nicholas sat back and gave him the look he reserved for when Oscar had said or done something particularly idiotic. “Can’t you tell the difference between French and Greek? Or Saxon for that matter?”

“I still struggle with English,” Oscar said wryly.

Nicholas smiled at that, and nodded in sympathy. “I suppose you are rather limited.”

Oscar shook his head. Meanwhile, Nicholas stood and wandered back between the shelves. Assuming the conversation was over, Oscar finally turned his attention to his supper. He had only managed two bites before Nicholas appeared again, with an armful of books.

He thumped them down on the table beside Oscar, and opened them side by side.

“Here, look,” he said, pointing to each in turn. “French, Latin, Spanish.”

Oscar looked, but all he could see was the same collection of letters in different configurations, none of which made any sense to his eye. The last, however, was different. “What about that one?”

Nicholas nodded, brushing a finger over a weathered page. “This is a very precious volume from Palestine. Their system of writing is most fascinating. Quite unlike anything we have in the Christian world, as you have no doubt noticed.”

“You can read this?” Oscar asked, staring at Nicholas in disbelief.

“Yes,” Nicholas nodded, “and the runic language of our own English forbears, though I cannot speak either.”

It seemed quite a lot of effort to go through for something so obscure. “What’s the point of learning all these languages?”

“What an absurd question,” Nicholas said. “Does a tailor limit himself to wool when he might also use silk and fur and leather, simply because these require different techniques to create and shape? Does a cook forswear unfamiliar ingredients and serve gruel every day simply because the spices that give variety and delight to her dishes come from distant lands? I am a scholar, and to limit myself to one single language or tradition of learning is just as ridiculous as suggesting that any other master never look beyond the most basic form of his art. Just because the church is willfully blind does not mean that I must be. I have a taste for more than plain robes and bland food.”

Oscar considered that, and found himself smiling. “What a does a scholar create, then? From silk and cinnamon?”

Nicholas laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You can be quite surprising,” he said. “You have already seen what application the study of languages can have. It has earned me an invitation to dinner, and possibly an acquaintance with the queen, which is no small thing. But to my mind, the true function of a scholar is not so much to create as to preserve. Imagine what knowledge and what beauty might be lost to the ages without the men who took the time to preserve it here for us. A scholar shows us where we sit in the great chain of civilization stretching back before Christ walked the earth. A noble enterprise, is it not?”

When he put it that way, Oscar could not help but find the idea compelling. It was more than he would ever be able to say, but he could not deny the new respect growing within him for what Nicholas had been able to achieve. He waved at the books before him. “So what are you going to do with all of this?”

“The most blasphemous thing possible, of course,” Nicholas said with a smirk. “I thought I might try my hand at translation. Some of the old Saxon poems in particular are quite lovely, and I am curious whether I could do them justice in our modern tongue.”

That reminded Oscar suddenly of a conversation he had nearly forgotten, and he asked, “Do you have any in English?”

“Any what?” Nicholas asked. “Poems?”

Oscar nodded.

Nicholas narrowed his eyes at Oscar, his lips curling in a knowing smile. “Looking for something flowery to convey your brokenhearted yearning to your distant love?”

A hot flush bloomed instantly in Oscar’s face, but he did not look away. “Something like that.”

Nicholas laughed, and went back to the shelves. Oscar followed him, and watched him peruse the stacks of books before settling on a thin volume bound in black hide. Nicholas held it out to him with a wink. “Try this. I warn you, some are quite vulgar, but perhaps your buttoned up magistrate would enjoy a bit of that, too.”

“He’s not as reserved as you might think,” Oscar said, the defense instinctual but also immediately regretted.

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward to stare at Oscar in intense interest. “Oh, yes?” he drawled. “Do tell. Does he like to drag you into storage cupboards, perhaps? Bend you over the furniture?”

The image made Oscar jolt, with a sudden stab of arousal as surprising as it was embarrassing. He thought about brushing off the question, but Nicholas had been remarkably forthright with his secrets. It seemed only fair that Oscar give him something in return. He coughed, and rubbed at his neck, muttering, “No.”

“No?” Nicholas tilted his head, his merciless gaze boring into Oscar. “He doesn’t bend you over the furniture? Or he doesn’t bend you over at all?”

Oscar scowled to try and hide his flush. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he growled, “but no. It’s not something he wants from me.”

Nicholas snorted, looking away at last. “What nonsense. You actually believe that?”

“What do you know about it?” Oscar demanded. “You don’t know him.”

“That is true,” Nicholas conceded, “but I know enough about men to promise you this. Any man who tells you he doesn’t want to stick his sword in something is a liar. If Cedric hasn’t tried to put his in you, it means he cares enough for you to preserve your pride.”

“What has pride got to do with it?” Oscar said, angered by the implication. “There’s no shame in it!”

“Easy to say, when you’re the one doing the sticking.” Nicholas watched him pensively, his face shadowed in the light that managed to penetrate the shelves. “You don’t think any less of him for it?”

“Of course not!” Oscar snapped. His respect for Wamba was unquestioning. Nothing about him would change that, none of the dark secrets of his past, and least of all what he preferred in their bed.

“So you would have no objection to giving him the same?”

“No,” Oscar said, faster than he could think, and realized only after he had spoken that for the first time that it was completely true. The reservations in his heart had all quieted at last. “I want him to. I just don’t know how to ask.”

Nicholas smiled at him, and there was something very sad in it. Then he shook his head, and it was gone. “Well,” he said lightly, “I don’t recall any poems in there about a desperate longing for your lover to fill you up with his steely manhood, but I haven’t made that close a study. You might be in luck.”

Oscar flushed again, even as he laughed, and thanked Nicholas for the book. He carried it with him when he left the archive that evening. He flipped through the pages, reading as he let his feet carry him on long habit toward Wamba’s chambers.

He climbed the stairs and turned a corner, absorbed in the words on the page, when a scuffle distracted him, and a deep grunt. He frowned, and looked up. At the other end of the corridor, someone screamed.


	48. Chapter 48

The scream jarred Oscar back from the book to the castle around him. He stopped, staring down the corridor to witness a broad back covered in the king’s red livery half concealed in a niche in the stone wall. He did not recognize the guard, but the two small hands that beat ineffectually at the thick shoulders were all he needed to see to spur him into action. The book fell forgotten from his hands as he set out at a run.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted, closing the distance as quickly as his legs would carry him. The guard shifted, looking back, but Oscar could not focus on his features. His gaze locked instead on Alice’s tear streaked face, her frightened blue eyes pleading with him over her attacker’s shoulder.

Oscar stumbled, shocked, but outrage quickly boiled up and took him over. His hand flew out to grip the guard’s arm and jerk him away from Alice. The man shoved his elbow back in a sharp jab, catching Oscar in the chest and hurling him into the opposite wall. “Get off,” he growled. “This is none of your concern.”

“Oscar!” Alice shrieked. She clenched her fists and hammered the guard’s shoulders again, but he caught both of her small wrists in his hands.

“Stop that!”

Oscar knew he was hopelessly outmatched, but that had never stopped him before. He clenched his teeth and leapt onto the guard’s back. He quickly wrapped both arms around the thick neck and locked them into a hold that should, with a bit of luck, choke his opponent unconscious. Luck was not on his side, however. The guard reared back, driving his head into Oscar’s brow.

Stars burst in Oscar’s vision, and he lost his grip. The guard tore his arms loose and shoved him off, and Oscar only just managed to keep his feet. He staggered back, as the guard turned to face him. His face was contorted in outrage, and the laces on his trousers hung open.

Oscar’s lip curled in disgust at the display, at the audacity of the man that he would dare to attack a royal servant in the corridors of the castle. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re a disgrace!”

Alice took her chance, ducking around the guard to run to Oscar. He waved her behind him, sheltering her with one arm. Her hands clenched the back of his tunic in a trembling grip.

“Mind your business!” the guard shouted, an accusing finger pointed at Alice. “She was asking for it!”

Oscar’s fist flew before he even had time to think. It slammed into the guard’s jaw with a loud crack, throwing him back. Pain exploded across his knuckles and up his forearm, and he hissed, but he did not retreat. Alice’s hands tightened in his tunic, and she whimpered.

The guard cursed and glared at him, rubbing one hand across a bloodied mouth. “Are you mad?” he bellowed.

Oscar planted his feet wide and clenched his hands, bracing for an attack. “Don’t you dare touch her again.”

The guard’s hard eyes met his, and they stared one another down for a long moment, a battle of wills that Oscar refused to concede. Then the guard shook his head, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the stones at Oscar’s feet. “Fine, you can have the little bitch. More trouble than she’s worth anyway.”

Oscar's breath blew from his nose like an enraged bull, and did not take his eyes off the man until he had turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Then Alice was throwing herself against his chest, clutching at him. “Oh, Oscar,” she sobbed, “I was so frightened!”

He wrapped his arms around her shaking form. “Alright. It’s alright. He’s gone,” he said stiffly, turning his protective impulse from confrontation to comfort with a conscious effort, though he could not help glancing down the corridor once more to confirm that his words were true.

Alice shuddered and began to cry in earnest. The wetness of her tears seeped through his clothing to chill his skin, but he let her weep. He rocked her gently, and stroked her hair with one hand, waiting for her to calm. Finally, she raised her head and pulled a rag from her apron pocket to wipe at her cheeks and nose, sniffling piteously. It was clear that she was in no state to return to her duties, so Oscar led her instead to the library, one arm wrapped firmly around her quaking shoulders.

The room was warm and welcoming in contrast to the chilly corridors. Oscar had taken to packing the fire tight to burn slowly while he away, keeping the space heated for Caspar’s sake. The little bird piped a merry greeting when the door opened, and hopped to the edge of his perch, eager for Oscar to liberate him from his cage. Oscar ignored him, and settled Alice on the couch, keeping his arm firm about her. She collapsed against him, her hand clutching the fabric over his heart and a cheek pressed to his chest.

“What happened?” Oscar asked her.

“I’ve seen him about the castle lately.” Alice sniffled again, and her voice was very small. “I thought it was just by chance, but he was always very friendly with me, asking if he could carry my baskets and such. I didn’t think anything of it when he said he had something to tell me. He wanted me to follow him, so I did. He tried to kiss me in the corridor. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen.”

She burst into a renewed round of sobbing, turning her face against Oscar to add to the mess there. He held her through it, stretching his aching hand carefully and watching Caspar tilt his head to and fro as he peered at them between the bars of his cage. Oscar’s jaw clenched tight, fighting down the helpless rage that such a thing had happened to her, that one of the men charged to protect the people of the tower had dared to use his strength to overpower a defenseless girl. He resolved to speak to one of the guard captains the following day, and make sure they knew what their soldier had done.

“I have the most awful luck with men.”

Oscar looked back down into Alice’s red-rimmed eyes. Her face was blotched and streaked with tears, and her lower lip trembled. “What do you mean?” he asked gently.

“They’re all brutes,” she said, wiping at one cheek.

Oscar turned to wrap both arms around her with a sigh. “That can’t be true.”

“It is true,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “Even my father hates me.”

“Why would he hate you?”

“He wanted a son. Instead, he only got a daughter, and a very plain one at that. Hardly good enough to attract a decent husband.”

Oscar frowned, pushing her back with his hands on her shoulders to look at her, amazed that anyone would deny her obvious beauty. “He said that to you?”

Alice nodded sadly. “He has his moods and he won’t even look at me then. Or if he does, he hits and throws things. That’s when I leave.”

“What about your mother? Doesn’t she try to stop him?”

“When I was younger, she used to try to protect me.” Alice shrugged. “Now she’s so addled from too much mead that she hardly realizes what’s being said in her own house.”

Oscar’s throat tightened, imagining how terrible such a home must be. Her tendency to loiter in the kitchen storerooms or beside the woodpile seemed much more reasonable to him, considering what she must tolerate otherwise. “I didn’t realize it was so bad,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t even have any prospects, now that my mother’s drunk my dowry away. No man would want me.” Alice pressed her hand to Oscar’s chest, a wobbly smile on her face. “You’re the only good one, Oscar. The only good man I know.”

He took her hand in his, forcing a smile onto his own lips. “There are others,” he assured her. “I’m sure there’s someone who will treat you as you deserve.”

Alice slid close to him once more. She rested her head on his shoulder and burrowed against his side. “You’re so brave,” she whispered. “You rescued me.”

Oscar put his arm around her again and settled back against the couch, unable to deny his pride at successfully thwarting the attack, or the comfort of her small, warm form after so many lonely nights. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, letting his heart calm and remembering evenings curled close with Cara in her bed sharing warmth.

“Oscar?” It was a whisper against his jaw, and when he turned his head he found her face tilted up to him, her eyes half closed and her rosy lips parted. Her bosom was pressed against his chest, swelling with each soft breath. Oscar looked at her, a tangled clutter of emotions tumbling in his gut. Unconsciously, his arm tightened, drawing her closer.

A ringing knock shocked Oscar from his trance. He jumped, and quickly pulled away from Alice, drawing in a sharp breath.

“Leave it,” Alice said. Her hand came to rest on his knee, but the spell was broken now. Oscar pulled away and levered himself to his feet with one hand on the back of the couch.

“It must be important, this late,” he said, though the most likely explanation was that Colin had returned to report on his progress.

He shook himself to throw off the last of the strange feeling that had come over him as he answered the door. Expecting the boy, it was a surprise to find a much taller figure there instead.

“Nicholas?” Oscar blinked. “What are you doing here?”

The archivist smirked. “I do hope I’m not disturbing you. One of the chambermaids told me where to find you. Or, more precisely, where to find Cedric’s rooms.” He winked. “I made the leap on my own that you were to be found here as well.”

Oscar could not help his chuckle, perplexed though it was. “Why were you looking for me at all? I thought you were dining with the queen.”

“I was just on my way there, in fact, when to my great surprise I discovered this lying in the corridor. I thought you might be missing it.” He lifted a brow, and a familiar black book that Oscar realized with faint horror he had completely forgotten, caught up in the unexpected confrontation and aftermath.

“Oh! I dropped it!” Oscar said, reaching for the book.

Nicholas pulled it away from his grasp, his head tilting. “You should be more careful with things that have been entrusted to you, especially ones of particular value such as this.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Oscar agreed quickly, hoping to stem a scolding that he did not have the patience to endure at the moment. “I apologize and I’ll take good care of it from now on.”

“See that you do,” Nicholas said, letting Oscar grasp the book at last. The archivist was looking over his shoulder into the room, his eyes narrowed. “Something else caught your attention, I take it?”

“It did,” Oscar said. “Though it’s been taken care of now.”

Nicholas made a thoughtful sound. His sharp gaze was on Alice, who was looking back with an innocent expression on her tearstained face. Nicholas watched her silently for a moment. Then he turned to Oscar and his serious expression cracked into a grin. “Well,” he said cheerily. “I’ll be off. Enjoy your evening.”

With a wave, he sauntered down the corridor. Oscar closed the door behind him and dropped the book on the table beside Caspar’s cage. He sat, leaving a decent space between his own body and Alice.

“Are you getting on better with him now?” Alice asked. She closed the gap he had left, drawing close, and leaned over to peer at Caspar.

“He is not as bad as I had believed,” Oscar said, keeping his eyes fixed on the bird.

Alice slipped a finger through the bars of the cage, scratching at Caspar’s downy belly. He made a peculiar bubbling noise and sidled away from her touch to huddle at the far end of his perch. She clicked her tongue at him and sat back. “It still turns my stomach, what he wanted to do to you.”

It took a moment for Oscar to remember what she was talking about. He hadn’t told her about the incident at the wedding feast, of course, but she had witnessed his earlier provocations herself.

“That was all a misunderstanding,” Oscar told her. He knew that Nicholas’s secret would not be safe from the servants for long, but he had no wish to add fodder to whatever rumors might already be churning. He clasped his hands between his knees, and winced when his injured knuckles protested the disturbance.

He stretched his fingers out again, and glanced at Alice. She seemed much recovered, the ordeal passed, enough that she would be able to make her way home. He stood, and smiled at her. “I’m going to have the physician look at this hand. Can I walk you to the gate?”

Alice blinked at him, a flash of disappointment and what might have been desperation in her eyes. “I can wrap it for you.”

Oscar shook his head, and forced a laugh from his throat. “I’ve never hit someone in the face like that before. I didn’t realize how hard a jaw bone is. I want to be sure nothing is broken.”

“What about supper?” Alice asked. “I could fetch enough for two.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Oscar said, “but I have some work to finish, actually.” He pointed at the book, feeling a bit of a cad for the deception but knowing that she would not be able to contradict him.

Her small shoulders slumped, and she breathed out a disappointed sigh. “Alright.”

Oscar held out a hand to her, that which did not feel as though it had been crushed beneath the hoof of an ox, and helped her to her feet. He let her take his arm as he walked her to the gate, keeping a watch out for any sign of the guard who had attacked her, and saw her off there with one last hug.

It was not much later that he was finally settled before the fire as he had intended, alone once more with a bandaged hand and a bowl of stew. He opened the book of poems that Nicholas had now given him twice and laid it on the table, while Caspar feasted on worms beside his dish.

One more day had passed, though it felt like more with all that had happened. Oscar revised his count to six, and smiled.


	49. Chapter 49

“You should be careful with that one.”

Oscar looked at book in hand, confused. It seemed sturdy enough, hardly the most delicate volume to be found in the archive. “This? Why?”

“Not that,” Nicholas corrected him, his eyes on the parchment before him. “I refer to that alluring little friend you were entertaining last night.”

“You mean Alice?” Oscar asked, lining the book up on the shelf next to a group of its fellows. His knuckles were still bruised, and his hand stiff, making it difficult to write, so Nicholas had set him to sorting books instead.

“Alice,” Nicholas echoed thoughtfully. ”Yes, that was her name, wasn’t it?”

“Can’t you even remember the name of the person who brings you your meals?” Oscar asked him, pulling another handful of books from the pile at his feet.

“I am not so friendly with the servants as you are.”

“I am a servant, in case you had forgotten,” Oscar reminded him with a snort. “There’s nothing strange about my being friends with the rest of them.”

“I would be careful of that one, though,” Nicholas said again, “if I were you.”

Oscar frowned and rested his hand on the shelf before him, watching Nicholas. “What does that mean?”

Nicholas finally looked up, and sat back in his chair to fix Oscar with a sober stare. “She looked as though she was of a humor to be more than friends.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Oscar said. “I didn’t invite her there on purpose. She was attacked in the corridor and I helped her. I’m sure seducing anyone was the last thing on her mind.” He was not, in fact, sure of that, but he could not help but feel protective of Alice after what she had revealed about her parents, and the violation she had only narrowly avoided.

“Attacked in the corridor, you say?” Nicholas hummed. “It was a lucky thing that you just happened to be passing by at the time.”

“What are you trying to say?” Oscar asked, his frown slipping into a scowl.

“That girl has her sights set on you, Oscar, and she looks like the sort who is used to getting what she wants.”

Oscar shook his head, bending to retrieve another book. “What would you know about it? You’ve been locked up in a monastery for years.”

“If you think I haven’t seen my share back corridor scheming, I must revise my opinion of your intelligence yet again.” Nicholas was still looking at him, his gaze prickling the hairs on the back of Oscar’s neck. “You should be very careful not to do something you’ll regret.”

“I can handle myself,” Oscar snapped, hoping to put an end to the conversation.

“Oh, if only I could tell you how many times I have seen those words proven untrue,” Nicholas said, but he returned his attention to his book and left Oscar to shelve in peace for a while.

Nevertheless, his words festered. Oscar was not as blind as Nicholas seemed to believe. He had recognized Alice’s charms, and also that her interest in him was more than friendly. If he was perfectly honest with himself, there had been a spark of attraction in him at the start, the purely bodily appetite of a man laying eyes on an unusually comely woman. That had lasted mere days, however, until he first began to suspect her motives. He had been careful not to give her any reason to think those feelings were returned, keeping her at arm’s length, at least until last night.

He could hardly refuse comfort to a friend who had just been so brutally assaulted. If she saw more in it than that, he would do what he must to restore that careful distance between them once more. Resolving himself to it did not mean he was eager to face her, however. When the door opened, some time later, his shoulders tensed, and he kept his eyes firmly on the shelf before him while he listened to the quick footsteps navigating the maze of shelves.

“Well, now,” Nicholas said. “What do we have here?”

“A letter for you, my lord,” piped a boyish voice, and Oscar’s shoulders drooped in relief. He laid his books down and turned, curious to see what news had arrived.

“Thank you, lad.” Nicholas took a folded square of parchment from the diminutive page’s hand and flipped it over. His brow rose. “Why, this isn’t for me at all.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” the page squeaked. “Did I make a mistake?”

“No, no,” Nicholas assured him, even as smirked at Oscar. “It’s not for me, but you are in the right place.”

“What are you talking about?” Oscar brushed his hands together and walked over to him. Nicholas tilted the letter so he could see the single word written across the front in a familiar hand.

_Oscar_

A thrill of pure delight engulfed Oscar, as though thousands of tiny bubbles had burst at once across his skin. He reached out and snatched the letter from Nicholas’s hand, brushing his fingertips across his own name before he turned it over to thumb at the plain red wax seal that held it closed.

“May I go, my lord?” the page asked, startling Oscar from his enthrallment with the letter.

“Yes, lad, you’ve done your duty.” Nicholas chuckled, grinning at Oscar. “Judging by that besotted expression on your face, I had best let you go as well.”

“Really?” Oscar asked, unable to conceal his eagerness.

Nicholas laughed and waved in the direction the page had disappeared. “You’re going to be useless until you’ve had a chance to read whatever it is Cedric could not wait another week to tell you. More useless, actually, as you are hardly of help to me with your hand in that state. Off with you.”

Oscar was too elated to take offense at the insult. “Thank you!”

He kept the letter clutched tightly to his chest as he ran through the corridors back to the library. His heart raced, pumping pure joy through his veins at the thought that Wamba had taken the time to write to him, had been thinking of him even a fraction as often as Oscar thought of him.

He threw the library door closed behind him, rushing to the hearth where there was light enough to read. Caspar chirped at him, and he grinned at the bird as he sat with his legs folded on the flagstones and took the letter in both hands, shaking with anticipation.

He drew a deep breath to calm himself, and slipped the tip of his thumb beneath the edge of the wax seal, prying it carefully loose from the thick parchment. The letter unfolded easily, revealing a few short paragraphs in Wamba’s familiar hand.

Oscar noticed, though, that there were several blotches of ink scattered among the words, as though Wamba had rushed to finish the missive. A vague sense of apprehension came over him, slowing the flood of joy, as he began to read.

_Oscar -_

_I cannot fully express how very much I do not want to write these words. It seems your fears for this journey were well placed. Today is our third day in York. While our business proceeds smoothly thus far, we have just been informed that a storm approaches the city. It will arrive within hours. The reports from the west are of snows unlike any this part of England has seen in a generation._

_His majesty will not hear talk of departing at this late hour, and rightly so. Already the snow has begun to fall outside my window. There is no telling how dire the aftermath will be. The storm might have spent the worst of its wrath by the time it reaches us. But in readiness should the roads be snowed under and we are forced to remain here until the thaw, the king is sending his most trusted messenger south with instructions for his officials in London. He has allowed me to include this message, so that you would not hear it from others first._

_I cannot commit all that I wish to say to written words, for those reasons already familiar to you. Please know that you are never far from my thoughts, nor will you be no matter how long this winter might last. Look after Caspar, and yourself. I will write again the very moment I am able._

Oscar stared at the parchment, numb and still. Then his lungs heaved a breath, and he held the letter up in shaking hands to read it again, trying to will the words into other shapes, some new and less terrible arrangement. The letter was not signed, and for a one hysterical instant he thought that perhaps Wamba had not written it at all, that it was some awful joke.

“No,” he whispered. “Please no.” The denial was of no use, the hand too familiar, the words stubbornly unchanged, and the bitter truth of it pierced his heart like shards of glass.

The lines of ink blurred before his eyes, wavering through a veil of rising tears. Every day he had counted, one closer to seeing Wamba again, but there was no way of knowing now how many days, how many weeks might pass before the king’s party was able to travel. Only a sucking mire of uncertainty lay before him now, an unknown swathe of wretched loneliness.

Caspar whistled, drawing Oscar’s attention. He looked at the little yellow face, curious eyes peering at him, and could find no comfort in that presence. He gasped out a sob, clutching at his tunic over his breast where a hot knot of anguish had formed, his heart bleeding itself out within his chest.

He could not stay in the library, not alone, but neither could he return to Nicholas. The archivist was none too gentle, and Oscar had no desire to collapse into tears in front of him. At a loss, he nevertheless pushed himself up on shaking legs, letting the letter fall from his hands to the stones at his feet. In a fog, he stumbled to the door, with a vague notion of leaving the tower, seeking out refuge with his brother. He stopped instead as he opened the door, his mind gone blank, and blinked at what awaited him on the other side.

Alice stared back at him, her arms clutched around a wooden tray. “Oscar!” she cried, her mouth falling open in shock at his appearance. “What’s the matter?”

Oscar frowned, trying to make sense of her words. “What are you doing here?”

Alice nodded to the tray in her arms. “The archivist said you had gone, so I brought your dinner here.”

Oscar squinted at it, noting for the first time the covered bowl and mug of small ale. “Not here,” he croaked. He needed to be away, from those rooms and every thing in them that reminded him of Wamba.

“Alright,” Alice said, watching him with concern as he swayed. “I know somewhere we can go. Come on.”

Oscar followed blindly as she led him into a part of the south wing where he had never ventured before, up a set of narrow spiral stairs to a low door which opened on a small, round room. He looked around, at the wide leaded windows, the rich fur rug, the velvet couch and asked, “What is this place?”

“It’s a part of the queen’s apartments,” Alice said, as she set the tray on the couch and threw a pair of logs into the small grate.

“What?” Oscar yelped, alarmed at the idea of trespassing in the queen’s private chambers.

“Don’t worry,” Alice said. “She’s only been up here the once since she arrived. I think it’s too cold for her in winter, so there’s no danger anyone will find us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Alice said, as the fire caught at last. She swept her hands clean on her apron and took a seat on the couch. She patted the space beside her. “Now come and tell me what’s happened.”

Oscar stood and looked at her for a long moment, the need to confide in a friend warring with the knowledge that she had no respect for Wamba, that he would likely be forced to endure further slights against his lover in exchange for whatever comfort she might offer. She waited, an encouraging smile on her face, until Oscar gave in. He fell heavily to the couch beside her. It was positioned so that it afforded a view through the glass window opposite, the smoky rooftops of the city set against a backdrop of pale blue sky.

“I had a letter from Cedric,” he said quietly. “He won’t be able to return when he planned.”

“Oh, Oscar.” Alice’s hand came to rest on his arm, the tone and the gentle touch just the right thing to make tears well up again in his eyes. Before he knew it he was hunched over his knees, gasping out his anguish into his hands and trying desperately not to sob like a child.

He had done his best to endure the separation with the strength Wamba expected of him, but he had underestimated how very essential Wamba had become to him. It felt as though a piece of his very soul had been ripped away, held captive in a place far beyond his reach. It was the height of cruelty, to ask him to fight on while suffering such a wound.

“Here.” One of Alice’s hands rubbed his back gently, while the other pressed the mug she had brought into his hands. “Drink this.”

He did as she suggested, taking a large swallow of the weak ale.

“Do you know when he’ll return?” Alice asked.

Oscar shook his head, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand to stem further tears. “Spring, he says, but that could mean anything. If the roads are impassable, it could be months.”

Alice made a soft hushing sound, and pushed the bottom of the mug up again, prompting him to drink. He did, letting the ale calm him.

“You don’t have to be lonely, you know.”

Oscar sat up, the sorrow eclipsed suddenly by anger. “Why would you say that to me now? Why won’t you understand? I’m not going to betray him.” The words sounded oddly slurred to his ears, and he smacked his lips, disturbed by the sensation that his tongue had somehow grown too large for his mouth. He wondered if the ale had been more potent than he realized.

“There are so many things he can’t do for you,” Alice murmured in his ear. “Don’t you want a family?”

Oscar could not say for certain what he wanted any more. The light from the window had begun to hurt his eyes, and so he closed them. The loss of sight to ground him made his head spin, and then he fell back into something soft, something that carried him along as he drifted in a slow river of lethargy.

A gentle hand on his face roused him, and he forced his eyes to open. The shape above him was indistinct, glowing around the edges like a divine vision, but his heart leapt at that familiar shade of gold.

Relief washed over him. He smiled, and lifted one sluggish arm to reach up and touch. “You came back.”

His arm fell, strangely feeble, and as his sight faded once more, he had one moment to wonder why Wamba smelled of roses.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

The first thing he knew was the cold. Bitter cold that numbed the fingers of his right hand and pricked the arm above it with icy needles. It was baffling, for the left was very warm, almost uncomfortably so, and a hot weight rested just above his heart.

His eyes were reluctant to open, bleary and unusually sensitive to the sunlight that bathed the chamber in which he found himself. He did not recognize the tapestry above him, or the rug on the floor. His mind was muddled, struggling to make sense of his surroundings, until he looked down and took in his own naked body, exposed to the air, and the equally bare form cuddled up against it.

A hoarse, horrified shout tore its way out of Oscar’s throat. He sat, and shoved Alice off of him, feet scuffing against rough velvet to propel him back until he butted up against the arm of the couch and could go no further. He stared, heaving out panicked breaths as he took in the scene before him. Alice rose onto her knees, tucking her legs underneath her. The pose left exposed the fullness of her bosom, the soft round curves of her hips, the apex of her pale thighs. She stretched her arms above her head, pushing her chest out further and sending her tousled golden curls cascading back over her shoulders, and smiled sultrily at Oscar.

“Usually a man looks more cheerful than that, after such a pleasurable night as we have shared.”

“What?” Oscar croaked. “What happened? What did you do?”

“Me?” Alice purred. She leaned forward to crawl between Oscar’s legs, walking her hands up his chest. “You were ravenous, Oscar. I had no idea you had such a passion in you.”

“No!” Oscar pushed her away, clamping his knees tightly closed and scrabbling for his tunic, discarded on the floor.

Alice sat back on her heels again, a patient expression on her face, as he tried desperately to recall what had happened. The last thing he remembered was Alice attempting to seduce him with the promise of comfort, and telling her very clearly that he would do nothing of the sort. His hand found the tunic at last, and he tugged it out from beneath the couch, only to send a mug tumbling across the floor, spilling its contents onto the rug. He stared at it, as the sensation of his senses slowly fading returned in a rush.

“No,” he said. “No. You did something. There was something in the ale.”

“Really, Oscar,” Alice said, her full lips pushed out in a pout. “It was just a few drops of dwale, to calm you. You were nearly frantic.”

“That can’t be true,” Oscar said, jerking his tunic over his head as the fullness of her design came to him at last. “There was something else. You planned this.”

“And what if I did?” Alice shrugged one round shoulder. “Didn’t it feel good? Being with a woman again? Coupling as God intended?” She climbed over him, pressing her bosom to his chest and wrapping her arms around his neck. Her hot, slick sex slid against his thigh. “There’s still time to enjoy it again.”

Oscar’s stomach turned over. He seized her arms and pushed her back, propelling her none too gently to the far end of the couch. He snatched up her shift from the floor and threw it at her. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”

He flew from the couch, looking around for his trousers and boots, set on putting as much distance between them as possible. Alice’s sweet mask fell away all at once. She snarled and flung the shift at him, catching him in the face. “What kind of deviant creature has he turned you into that you would rather sow your seed in his barren field? You don’t belong with him! He can’t give you any of the things I can. With me, you can have a true marriage! Children!”

Oscar dropped her shift at his feet and glared at her, such an icy rage come over him that he had to fight back the urge to reach for her throat. “What I am is for God to judge. Not you, not any selfish deceiver like you. Do not come near me again.”

Alice jumped up, her eyes flashing with fury and her bare foot stamping as she howled, “If you go back to him, I’ll tell everyone about you! He’ll be exposed as the vile monster he is.”

“Do as you like,” Oscar spat. “There have been rumors about us from the start. The king won’t let it go any farther than that.”

“Then I’ll tell Cedric what you did!” she shrieked. “He won’t forgive you!”

“I will tell him the truth,” Oscar said, deadly cold. “Let us see which of us he believes.”

“Oscar!” she cried, a note of desperation in her voice now, but Oscar did not acknowledge her further. He stalked from the room, and swayed dangerously at the top of the spiral staircase as the ache in his head made itself known, stabbing pain that lanced through his brain. He stumbled down the treacherous steps and weaved his way through the corridor in what he hoped was the right direction.

Emma had been right. So had Nicholas. Oscar could not say he had not been warned. Yet still he had fallen prey to her plot, even knowing of her desire toward him, even knowing of her disgust for Wamba. He was the worst kind of fool, and there was nothing and no one but his own arrogance to blame for this result. By the time he found familiar corridors at last, tears were streaming freely down his cheeks. He wrapped his arms around his chest and kept his head low lest anyone witness his humiliation.

The library was dark but for the light from the window, which fell on the table and the wicker cage that rested on it. A meek peep issued forth from the huddled little ball of feathers there, and Oscar realized, with renewed horror, that he had let the fire go out.

“I’m sorry, Caspar,” he gasped, rushing to the hearth to build it again. He piled the logs and sparked the tinder, feeding in more until the dry wood caught. He sat back on his heels, staring into the writhing flames as they gained strength. Something moved in the edge of his vision, and he looked to find Wamba’s letter resting on the flagstones where it had fallen from his hand the day before. It fluttered and curled in the mounting heat.

Oscar choked down a sob, and reached out to rescue it from danger. No matter the news it bore, Wamba had still written it for him, and that made its value immeasurable. It was unthinkable that it might have been destroyed due to his carelessness. Unthinkable that he might have destroyed their bond with the same.

As his tears returned in earnest, Oscar finally let himself confront the terrible truth of what had happened. Willing or not, he had betrayed Wamba in the worst possible way. He would have to confess, to tell his lover what he had done and inflict that wound on Wamba with his own hand. It seemed too much to hope that he would be forgiven, that they could go on as they had. The trust between them would never be the same. Clutching his knees to his chest before the fire, Oscar sobbed like a child.

By the time his tears abated, his lungs ached nearly as badly as his heart. His head pounded like a drum, and he could not think of facing anyone in the castle today. He did not know what time it was. Wiping his running nose on his sleeve, he finally forced his body to uncurl. He felt ancient, bones creaking as he hobbled to the table and threw several worms into the cage for Caspar, with another apology, the second of many he would have to offer in the coming days. Making amends was for later. Rest was all he could think of now, but he could not stomach the thought of going to bed, the bed that he shared with Wamba. He fell instead to his old cot, turning his face to the wall and drawing his limbs close to his chest.

He did not know how long he slept, before he woke to find a shadow on the wall, looming over him. He stiffened, watching it until it moved away. The scrape of metal on stone and the dull clatter and hiss of the fire told him where the intruder had gone. Slowly, so as not to make a sound, he rolled over onto his back and craned his neck to see who had crept upon him as he slept. The figure before the fire was a shadowy silhouette, but he easily recognized the shape of a maid’s cap. Rage coursing through him anew, he shot from the bed with fists clenching as he growled, “What are you doing here?”

The shadow stopped and dropped the poker. She stood and planted small fists on her hips as she turned. “That’s the thanks I get for bothering to see whether you had gone and died from your own pig-headedness?”

Oscar blinked, taking in the familiar mousy curls and hazel eyes glaring at him. “Emma?”

“Who were you expecting? Not that crowing harpy, I hope.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, then immediately raised both hands when her eyes narrowed. “I mean, I thought you were done with me. I didn’t expect you to be checking up on me.”

“The archivist hadn’t seen you since yesterday, so he went and asked Alard, who ordered Gregory to find you, who told me to do it instead. Everyone was worried about you.” She snorted. “Not that you deserve it.”

“No,” Oscar agreed, his shoulders slumping. “No, you’re right.”

Emma glared at him for a moment longer. Then she huffed out an exasperated breath. “What happened?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

Oscar looked at his feet, unable to meet her eyes as he confessed, “I made a mistake.”

“Worse than all your other mistakes?”

Oscar shook his head, appalled anew at how far Alice had been able to push him. This latest was only one of the many, many mistakes he had to atone for. He had turned against Emma, pushed his friend away, on nothing but her word. “You were right about her.”

“Alice? Did you finally decide she was not to your taste after all?”

“She drugged me,” he said quietly. “It was yesterday, and I can’t remember what happened but she says that she and I…” He could not finish, just closed his eyes, wishing he could recall clearly what he had done, wishing he could be certain he had not been a willing participant in whatever had transpired.

“I warned you to stay away from her,” Emma said sternly. “She’s had her eye on you from the start. You should have heard her, boasting in the kitchens about how she would have you wrapped around her finger before Christmas. I didn’t think it was possible, but I clearly had too much faith in you. Do you realize how you looked, sneaking off with her into the cellars?”

Oscar could only nod, knowing he fully deserved every bit of scorn she saw fit to heap upon him.

Emma sighed, and stepped forward to close the distance between them. She reached up and grasped his face between her hands, forcing him to look up. He met her eyes flinchingly, his raw heart dreading another condemnation, no matter how justified. It was a surprise when her face softened. “Are you alright?”

“No,” he rasped.

He wanted to tell her, explain the full horror of what he had done, but the words stuck in his throat as they always had. He could not know if she would react as Alice had, would condemn him, or Wamba, or both. She was watching him, waiting, and he knew that he had to finally tell the truth, that only a show of trust had any chance of allowing their friendship to heal.

“I’m together with Cedric,” he whispered. “I have been for years.”

Emma smiled. “Well of course you are, Oscar,” she huffed, patting his cheeks, “but I’m glad you were finally able to admit it.”

Oscar blinked, stunned. “You knew?”

“How stupid do you think I am?” Emma scoffed, pointing to his cot. “That bed hasn’t been slept in in years." The accusing finger shifted to Oscar's person. "You never show a whit of interest in any of the girls, even when they're falling over themselves for your attention. The way you talk about Cedric you'd think he had hung the moon, and if that wasn’t enough, the sight of you in his bed when I brought you your gruel last winter was fair well undeniable.”

“You,” he stuttered. “It doesn’t disgust you?”

“Why would it?” Emma said, a frown pinching her small face. “He didn’t force you into it, did he?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why should I worry, as long as you’re happy? I understand that it’s not the sort of thing you want to shout from the rooftops, but you could at least be honest with your friends.”

“Is that what we are?” Oscar asked tentatively. “Friends?”

Emma’s smile returned. “I’d say you’ve proven how much you need me for a friend.”

“I do,” Oscar said, on a relieved laugh. “I really do.”

“Lucky for you, I’m gracious enough to give you another chance.”

The next moment, Emma’s strong arms were around him, squeezing the breath from him, but it was precisely what he needed at that moment. He returned the hug, and closed his eyes against the sting of yet more tears. He had wept enough for one day.

“You should apologize to Hector as well.”

Oscar pulled away to look at her. “Hector? Who is he?”

“The guard whose jaw you nearly broke,” Emma said, wagging a finger at him.

“The one who attacked Alice?” Oscar frowned. “Why should I apologize for that?”

“He didn’t attack her. She invited him there. He said she was quite willing, until she started screaming and you appeared out of nowhere.”

Oscar’s blood ran cold. “She planned that, too.”

“You should not underestimate her cunning,” Emma said.

“We have to get rid of her,” Oscar said, “and not for my sake alone. She’s only going to cause more trouble if she stays.”

“That’s what I like to hear, and only half a year late.” Emma smirked, and punched Oscar in the arm. “Lucky for both of us, I might have just the thing.”

“Really?” Oscar asked, rubbing at his arm.

Emma nodded, a sly tilt to her brow. “Do you want to hear my plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic language and for strongly implied non-consensual m/f sex (rape).


	51. Chapter 51

“Look! See there!”

“Where?” Oscar leaned over Emma, one hand braced on her shoulder, to peer around the corner of the stairwell into the corridor. She grunted in annoyance, but tolerated his weight as they watched Alice leave one of the guest chambers with an ash pail in her hand.

Oscar’s skin crawled at the sight of her, his memory furnishing an echo of her touch to fuel his revulsion, but he swallowed it down and focused instead on what Emma wanted him to see. He narrowed his eyes, staring at the pocket on Alice’s apron, but could not detect anything unusual about it.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

“Can’t you see it?” Emma hissed. “Look at the shape. She’s taken something.”

They watched Alice walk down the corridor and into the neighboring chamber, but no matter how closely he looked Oscar could not see what Emma saw. When Alice had disappeared again, closing the door behind her, Oscar pushed away from Emma and took a few steps down the stairs.

“I’m not saying I doubt your vision,” he said, “but I couldn’t see anything unusual.”

Emma sighed and dropped down to sit on the highest step, planting her elbows on her knees and her cheeks in her palms. “You’re not the only one. Julia said it was just wishful thinking. If only Margaret were still here. She would be able to tell. Of course, if Margaret were here, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

Oscar took a seat a few steps below her and pondered the question. “How many nobles have complained?”

“A dozen at least during the month before the wedding. I swear there were ladies screeching nearly every day about their trinkets going missing. Alice was smart, though. She didn’t take anything too costly. Nothing valuable enough that the steward would care to spare any time looking into it while we were all caught up in the wedding preparations. You know how thinly we were all stretched before Christmas.”

In fact, Oscar had been spared the worst of it, but he clearly remembered the chaos of the kitchens and back corridors, the exhaustion that had engulfed Wamba. It was no great surprise that a spate of minor thefts would not merit much attention in the midst of that.

“Can’t the ladies whose jewels were stolen talk to Alard now?” he asked. “If enough of them complain, Alard won’t have any choice but to investigate.”

Emma shook her head. “Most of them have gone home. If they haven’t made any great commotion about it by now, they’ve likely resigned themselves to the loss or forgotten entirely.”

“You’re sure she’s the one stealing, though?”

“Who else could it be?” Emma asked, frowning at him. “I hope you don’t think I would do such a thing.”

“Not you,” Oscar assured her, “but there were at least as many strange servants about as nobility for the wedding.”

“Personal servants,” Emma corrected him. “Ladies’ maids and valets. None that would have been able to go into so many different chambers unremarked. I’m telling you, it was Alice.”

Oscar propped his arm up on his raised knee and leaned back against the cool stone of the wall. He could easily believe that Alice was capable of the kind of theft Emma suspected. Her accusations had brought to mind an incident he had nearly forgotten, of finding Alice poking about in Wamba’s belongings. If she had not taken anything, it was likely only because Wamba owned nearly nothing of value that might interest her. His coin was locked up in a chest, the key to which remained always either in his purse or in Oscar’s.

He nodded. “Alright. You’ve convinced me. What are we going to do about it?”

Emma hopped up onto her feet, and stretched a hand down to help Oscar up as well. “First, I think we should talk to Gregory.”

“Haven’t you shared your suspicions with him already?”

Emma grimaced. “This has not been the best month to talk to him.”

Oscar easily recognized her meaning when they found Gregory at his small table in the antechamber of his father’s office. The skin beneath his eyes was sunken and dark, and he was slumped so far over the parchment before him that his prominent nose was resting on it.

“I can see why you have Emma running your errands for you,” Oscar quipped.

Gregory lifted his head and scowled at Oscar, the tip of his nose black with ink. “You try tending a squalling infant every night and see if you fare any better.”

Oscar chuckled, and gave him an unrepentant smile. “How is Celia?”

“Recovered,” Gregory said, “though not yet ready to leave her mother’s care.”

“And your daughter?”

Gregory’s face softened at that, a hint of pride breaking through the pomposity, though he quickly quashed it and said, “From what I can tell, she is determined to take after her grandfather in temperament.”

“But not in appearance, I hope,” Oscar said, calling to mind Alard’s menacing visage.

“Not if God has any mercy,” Gregory agreed, “but I’m sure you didn’t come just to ask after my family. What do you need?”

“We’re here about Alice,” Emma said.

“That again?” Gregory groaned. “I know you don’t like her, Emma, but I’m not going to dismiss her on the basis of your personal grudge.”

Emma leaned down and planted her palm flat on the desk, glaring at him. “If you would listen to me for a moment, you would know that it’s not just a matter of dislike. She’s bringing a bad name on the royal household, Gregory. She’s been stealing from the noble guests.”

Gregory shook his head, and rubbed his hand across his chin. He glanced at Oscar. “How did she convince you to go along with this crusade?”

“I believe her,” Oscar said simply. “You should listen.” He did not offer any further explanation. He and Emma had agreed that if there was a way to have Alice expelled from the tower without revealing what she had done to Oscar, it was best to keep that secret.

“Alright,” Gregory threw up his hands. “I’ll play along. Emma, do you have any proof that Alice has stolen from any the guests?”

“Not as such,” Emma admitted, “but you know as well as I that many of the ladies who traveled to London for the king’s wedding complained that their valuables had gone missing.”

“My father duly recorded every complaint,” Gregory said, “and he concluded that it was most likely that the ladies had misplaced their belongings, or neglected to bring them from their homes by mistake. Many of them were not usual participants at court, and unaccustomed to travel.”

“So many of them at once?” Emma asked. “Doesn’t it seem much more likely that someone who had permission to enter each and every one of those rooms helped herself to a trinket here and there?”

“It might be a more fitting explanation, but there’s no way to prove it. So what do you suggest I do about it?”

“Why not search her cell?” Emma said. “She might have kept some of them.”

“She doesn’t have a cell in the servant quarters,” Oscar noted. “She lives in her parents’ home.”

“She does,” Gregory nodded, “and the steward’s office has no authority over the private dwellings of royal servants outside the tower walls.”

Emma chewed her lip, her brow creased in a frown. Then she snapped her fingers and smiled. “How about this? I’ll accuse her of stealing. I’ll tell her I’m going to tell your father. If she does have any of her spoils still about, she’ll try to get rid of them. When she does, we’ll be able to catch her in the act.”

“Do you really think that will work?” Oscar asked. “What if she’s disposed of everything already?”

“She hasn’t,” Emma said. “I know you didn’t see it, but she’s got something in her pocket right now. She never stopped stealing, she just became more clever about it.”

Gregory nodded slowly, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Alright. You bring me some proof, some witness, and I’ll see that my father deals with her accordingly.”

“You’re not going to defend her again?” Emma asked pointedly, giving Gregory a suspicious look.

“How much longer must I suffer your displeasure, Emma?” Gregory sighed. “I told you, I didn’t choose her to spite you. I needed someone to fill the post. She was willing, and I thought I could trust her because of our past acquaintance. I’m not going to make excuses for her if she has been committing crimes against the king’s guests. My duty is to this office first.”

Emma crossed her arms and glared stubbornly at the floor, but Oscar could see her softening. He smiled, and threw an arm around her shoulders. “Come on,” he coaxed. “He’s agreed to help. There’s nothing to gain from being cross with him any more.”

She grumbled, but when she looked at Gregory again there was a hint of a smile about her lips. “If we bring you what you need, you’ll see her gone?”

“Bring me proof.”

“We will,” Emma promised.

Gregory waved them out of the antechamber with an irritated hand, but Oscar was feeling much more hopeful about the possibility of accomplishing their goal.

“When are you doing to do it?” he asked, as they made their way slowly in the direction of the kitchens.

“Not today,” Emma said. “It’s too late. I’ll talk to her in the morning. That way, she’ll have the whole afternoon to do whatever she plans to get rid of the evidence.”

“Alright,” Oscar said. “Let me know when you need me.” He did not relish the thought of facing Alice again, but he knew that it was the only way to reclaim any sense of dignity that might be left to him.

Warmth filled his palm, soft and sudden. Emma clasped his fingers tight between her own, the strength in that hand giving Oscar the fortitude that he lacked. He smiled at her, and returned the comforting press.

“Did you eat?” she asked.

“Not since yesterday,” Oscar realized. “I’m actually quite ravenous, now that I think about it.”

“Let’s get some supper, then,” Emma said. Then she winked. “Don’t worry. If Alice is there, I’ll protect you.”

Oscar laughed, and pulled her in for a quick, rough hug. He was indescribably grateful for her, for her forgiveness and understanding. While nothing could quite fill the void that Cara had left in his life, he had a suspicion that Emma might, over time, come very close.

They ate a companionable supper in the warm kitchens, thankfully free of any appearance by Alice, and by the time he left to seek his bed, his spirits were miles higher than they had been at the start of the day. At least, until he approached the library door and discovered a small shape huddled on the floor beside it, sandy head resting on drawn up knees.

“Colin?” Oscar called, bending down to touch the boy’s shoulder. Colin startled, and blinked up at Oscar.

Oscar’s heart sank, for Colin’s face was one again stained with tears. “What happened?”

Colin swallowed, but it did not stop more tears rising up to pool on his lashes. “Is it true?” he whispered. “Cedric’s not coming back for months?”

Oscar’s throat tightened, remembering once more that he was not the only one who had been fighting to keep from despairing at Wamba’s absence. He knelt down beside Colin, there in the corridor, and placed a gentle hand on his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Oh,” Colin sobbed, and buried his face in his knees once more.

“Come inside,” Oscar said quietly. He lifted the boy up with a hand on his arm and guiding him into the library. He settled Colin on the couch, cursing under his breath as the boy winced when his rump made contact with the seat. He wished that he had thought to bring milk back with him, to warm over the fire, but in the absence of that he offered Colin the last of the watery wine on the table.

Colin accepted it, rubbing at his face and coughing. “I thought it must have been some sort of mistake,” he sniffed. “Why wouldn’t he come back?”

Oscar dropped down beside him with a heavy sigh. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to,” he explained. “There was a storm and they don’t know when the roads will be clear to travel. It might be days or it might be weeks.”

“What am I going to do?” Colin clutched his cup tightly between white hands, staring into it with wide unseeing eyes. Looking at him, it was easy enough to see that the boy was on the verge of breaking.

“Gilbert still isn’t satisfied with your work?” Oscar asked. He knew the answer, but he thought it best to encourage Colin to talk.

The boy shook his head, another hiccupping sob escaping. “I’ve tried what you suggested. I tried doing it all different ways. None of them are good enough.”

Oscar laid his head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling, thinking over the problem. It was obvious enough, to him, that Colin was not at fault. Gilbert was making a scapegoat of him for his own frustrations. Nothing Colin could do would change that. A more drastic approach was needed.

When the idea dawned on him, Oscar could not contain his grin.

“I have it.” He sat up, and clapped Colin on the back, ignoring his wince. “I’m going to take your place.”

“What?” Colin squeaked. “You can do that?”

“I did your job for years,” Oscar said. “I’m fairly confident I haven’t forgotten how in just a few short months.”

“Will Gilbert agree?”

“We’ll tell him you’re ill,” Oscar said quickly, “but that’s not all. You’re going to hide by the doors and take notes just as you normally would.”

“What?” Colin blinked at him. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to give them to me after the tribunal. I’ll tell Gilbert they’re mine.”

Colin looked down at his cup again. “But,” he said, “what if he thrashes you, too?”

Oscar smiled, touched that the boy would worry for him. “I promise you, he wouldn’t dare, and if he tried I wouldn’t let him.”

“But what good will it do to pretend my notes are yours?”

“Let me worry about that for now. You go and find something less noticeable than that robe to wear tomorrow. I’ll see about getting the archivist’s permission to take a morning away from my duties.“ At the thought of Nicholas, he grimaced. “I can’t imagine what he would say if I went missing again.”

“Would he thrash you?”

Oscar huffed a wry laugh and ruffled his hair. “You know, after the way I’ve behaved these past few days, he just might.”


	52. Chapter 52

Nicholas, of course, was far too fiendish to settle for so simple a punishment as a thrashing. He watched as Oscar offered his feeble apologies for his truancy, cowed beneath the archivist’s scornful gaze. 

“And yet you wish to be excused again?” he asked, once Oscar had thoroughly explained himself.

“Just for a morning,” Oscar hastened to assure him.

Nicholas crossed his arms. “And what, pray tell, is of greater urgency than demonstrating that you are indeed as dedicated to your work as you claim?”

“I need to help a friend,” Oscar said. “It won’t take long.”

“He must be a good friend indeed, to risk my further displeasure.”

“It's Cedric’s scribe. His replacement is treating Colin unfairly. I just want to do what I can for him.”

Nicholas tapped his fingers against his elbow, watching Oscar thoughtfully. Finally, he nodded. “You will, of course, provide me adequate service to compensate me for my generosity.”

For his transgressions, and for the privilege of being excused to take on his old post in the tribunal for a morning, promises were extracted from Oscar to scrub every corner of the archive floor, wash the windows, and repair several of the shelves, all while making up the work he had neglected so as not to delay their progress. To all of this Oscar agreed.

His humiliation was a fair price to pay for the relief on Colin’s face when Oscar joined him at the tower gate. The boy was dressed rather comically in a drab tunic and trousers that were too short for his growing limbs. He clutched a simple leather cap in his hand, twisting it anxiously until he noticed Oscar approach.

“Colin! I hardly recognized you!” Oscar said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Colin flashed him a smile, but it quickly faded into worry once more. “Do you really think this will work? What if he notices me?”

“Just keep to the back and make sure you can’t see him. There should be at least one person there large enough to block his view. Make your notes as you usually do, and bring them up to me at the end.” Oscar looked him over. “You did bring what you need for that, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Colin pulled the edge of his tunic up so that Oscar could see the parchment and quill tucked into his trousers.

Oscar laughed. “That’s very good. What about your ink?”

“It’s here,” Colin said, untwisting his cap to show Oscar the small, stoppered bottle hidden within.

“Very well done so far,” Oscar said. “Now you’d better run along and find your seat. I’ll explain to Gilbert about the substitution.”

Colin took a deep breath, and squared his narrow shoulders. “Alright.”

He scampered off to circle the tribunal and enter through the main doors, while Oscar went to the antechamber to meet Gilbert. The small room was lit only by the pale beams of sunlight filtering through the high windows, the bookshelves just as he remembered them, stacked with years of records from all across England. He took it all in with a pang of wistfulness, for peaceful days spent here with Wamba, not so very long ago. Then he chuckled at his own sentimentality, and fetched a blank scroll for his notes from the stores there, though if all went according to plan Gilbert would never see them.

The magistrate had not yet arrived, so he opened the door to the adjoining hall and poked his head out to have a look at the familiar hall. The rows of long benches that lined the room were still mostly empty, but there was time yet before the proceedings would be called to order. Oscar noticed the bailiff Randall standing beside the dais, and waved to catch his attention. The portly man’s red face lit and he ambled over to the door.

“Oscar! What are you doing here?”

“Colin’s taken ill,” Oscar explained. “He asked if I could assist Gilbert here for the morning, give him a chance to rest.”

“That’s a shame,” Randall said. “He’s a good lad. Would be a shame if it were something serious.”

“I wouldn’t fret,” Oscar said. “He should be back on his feet by tomorrow.”

“You be sure to tell him I’ve wished him well,” Randall said.

“I will,” Oscar smiled, glad to discover that Colin had at least one friend in the tribunal.

Then a new voice interjected coldly, “Why was I not informed of this?”

Oscar turned and met Gilbert’s disapproving frown. The man was mostly as Oscar remembered him, his awkwardly twisted body leaning heavily on the cane at his side, one shoulder hunched atop a stiff arm. The gradual retreat of his hair had gained some speed over the past months, leaving him nearly bald but for a thin veil of black hair combed smooth to the back of his head.

“I told him I would convey the message, my lord,” Oscar replied, as cheerfully as he could manage.

Gilbert’s frown deepened. “It is not appropriate that he should speak to you before sending word to his master.”

Oscar grit his teeth, and hoped that he had not earned Colin yet another punishment with his subterfuge, though there was no way to remedy it now but to press on. “I’m sure he meant no offense by it. He only wanted to ensure that you were not left without capable assistance.”

“I know Cedric found you adequate, but that does not mean I will draw the same conclusion,” Gilbert said. “Nevertheless, a hand is needed so it might as well be yours.” The indifference in his tone did not surprise Oscar, nor did the abruptness with which he pushed past Oscar and stumped into the hall with the support of his cane. It was, however, deeply irritating, and he only just managed to swallow his retort. Randall gave him a sympathetic look as he went to signal the guards to close the doors.

Oscar followed him, his blank scroll clenched in his hand, and seated himself at the scribe’s desk while Gilbert did the same on the dais. To Oscar’s surprise, the room remained nearly deserted, only a handful of people scattered across half of the benches. Colin’s concerns that he might be discovered were much more reasonable than Oscar had assumed, if this was what the tribunal had become.

He peered around at the gathered people, looking for the boy. Colin was barely noticeable, tucked behind a broad-shouldered man in a leather apron and a younger woman at his side. His cap was pulled low on his head, hiding his sandy mop of hair, and he was hunched over his lap with his head well down, the parchment stretched across his knees. It was as inconspicuous as he was likely to get.

Oscar noted his choice of concealment approvingly, even as he was distracted by a conspicuous shade of orange, his eye drawn with growing disbelief to another familiar figure at the back of the hall. Nicholas was seated on the very last bench, close to the doors, and his gray eyes were narrowed, studying Gilbert. Oscar had a moment to gape at him, wondering what caprice had possessed him that he had followed Oscar here. 

Then Gilbert tapped his cane down on the table and said disinterestedly, “Bring in the prisoners.”

Randall nodded to one of the guards, and the side door opened to admit a mismatched collection of men. Two about Oscar’s age were first, twins by the remarkable resemblance of their features, and dressed in finer clothes than Oscar was accustomed to seeing on criminals. Behind them came a man old enough to be their father, though much more humbly attired, whose vacant eyes stared at the ceiling. Last was a younger man, bedraggled as his neighbor and shaking with barely contained sobs. All were manacled at their wrists, though each separately, and Oscar could not imagine what conspiracy might have brought them together.

They came to a halt before the dais, just as Oscar recalled his purpose and began to make notes of their diverse appearances. His hand remembered the task easily, laying out a series of quick observations even as Gilbert began to speak.

“Start with the two there,” he said, waving a hand at the twins.

“Yes, my lord,” Randall nodded. “I present for the justice of the crown two brothers, sons of the wool merchant Raibert, who were seized yesterday evening in the act of vandalizing the statue of the king’s father newly erected in the abbey square.”

One of the young men leaned over to whisper something to his brother, who smirked. If they were aware of the gravity of their situation, they gave no sign of it, both with eyes sparking with humor.

“Vandalism, yes, and a hint of treason besides.” Gilbert stared at them. “What affront was it they perpetrated upon the royal effigy, precisely?”

“They, um,” Randall cleared his throat, biting down on a smirk. “They tarred and feathered it, your lordship.”

The twins both snickered, and Oscar could not help but do the same. The statue in question was a prodigiously ugly thing, and certainly could only be improved with a little fanciful decoration.

“You find it amusing to deface the image of your king’s royal sire, do you?” Gilbert said acidly. “Perhaps you will feel differently when you are exposed to the same. You will both spend two days in the stocks. I trust that will cure you of your delight in such childish foolishness.”

“What?” both young men cried at once, levity falling from their faces at last. Their voices blended in a babbling objection, joined in short order by a man in the crowd who looked like he might be their father, all three strenuously pleading for mercy.

Oscar’s hand stopped still, in the midst of recording the details of the crime. Never had he witnessed a sentence issued so quickly, not without any questioning of the accused or pause to consult the law books. He opened his mouth, ready to break the customary silence of his role and protest, when Randall stepped up to the dais.

“My lord,” he said quietly, “we are many weeks from spring yet. Do you mean to hold them prisoner until then?”

“Of course not,” Gilbert said. “The sentence will be carried out immediately. Today, I should think.”

“But my lord,” Randall protested again, “a night in the stocks in this cold could well be a death sentence.”  
   
“It is unlikely,” Gilbert said, his implacable gaze turned on the horrified twins, who had fallen silent. “We must be firm, lest others follow their example.”

“Please have mercy, my lord,” the father called, but Gilbert waved him to silence.

“Their guilt is unquestionable and the decision is made. Let us move on.”

As the twins were taken away, Randall unhappily announced the next man, who was accused of vagrancy and causing public disturbance.

“Who has witnessed this?” Gilbert asked.

“That would be me, your lordship,” said a thin woman in a wool shift and a long scarf. “My husband has a tavern, down by the market. We get all sorts, but Walter has been hanging about more since his wife and son passed last winter.”

“Last winter,” Gilbert echoed, a critical gaze turned on the woman who spoke. “You have been indulging this abominable idleness for an entire year?”

“Well,” she said, wringing her hands, “We didn’t see the harm in letting him forget his sorrows for a bit, just until he found his feet again. But it’s just that we found him sleeping in the storeroom, likely due to the cold, and then he began shouting and causing a fright to some of the customers. That’s when I called the watch.”

“You had no concern at this?” Gilbert demanded, waving at the man in question. Walter displayed no awareness that he was being discussed. His foggy gaze was fixed on the wall above Gilbert’s head, and he swayed gently. “A year of drink had clearly rotted his brain. Your tardiness is as much to blame for the deplorable state of this man as any personal failing. It is the duty of each of us to take responsibility for our neighbors.”

“Yes, my lord,” the woman said. “Truly sorry, my lord.”

Gilbert was unmoved by the apology. “You will demonstrate your contrition by paying to the royal treasury a fine of thirty crowns.”

The woman paled, and her mouth fell open, but no sound emerged. Oscar was equally appalled, that she should be punished so severely for no more crime than an overabundance of kindness.

“You have chosen to deal in drink, a thing of great potential vice,” Gilbert continued, “and must be held to a higher standard of responsibility for allowing others to fall from the proper path.”

“My lord,” the woman whispered at last, “thirty crowns will ruin us.”

“Then perhaps others will be saved from ruination as a result.”

“And the prisoner, my lord?” Randall asked.

“Ah, yes,” Gilbert said, shifting his attention to Walter. “You, disgraceful man, will be flogged. Ten lashes, I think, and ten more if you have not found some employment or purpose for yourself in six months time.”

Walter did not respond, lost in a reverie that Oscar strongly suspected may be true madness. The man beside him, in contrast, began to weep in earnest, covering his face with his shackled hands as he no doubt realized that no mercy awaited him in this tribunal. 

The noise drew Gilbert’s attention. “Now that we’ve dealt with the drunkard, what crime has this miserable creature committed?”

Randall swallowed, a hint of dread in his voice as he said, “He was caught stealing from a baker in Watling Street, my lord.”

“There is no doubt?”

“None,” Randall said. “He had his spoils in his shirt when the watch caught him.”

“Your lordship,” the thief croaked, “I can explain. My family have starved the winter. Our stores are gone. My son…”

“Silence,” Gilbert said sharply. “The word of a criminal means nothing here, and whatever justification you might hope to offer does not change that. If this tribunal pardons one thief, it merely gives license to others to follow his example. The law on this is clear, and just. Your transgression will cost you that thieving hand.”

“Please, my lord,” screamed the man, as his knees buckled. “Please have mercy!”

“See it done,” Gilbert said to Randall, who signaled the guards to remove the thief.

Oscar swallowed, fighting down bile. It was no wonder that the tribunal would be so empty after weeks of this. Word would have spread about the present magistrate and his merciless approach to justice. Those with grievances had no doubt put them aside for as long as it took for Wamba to return.

The most astonishing part was that Gilbert had done nothing wrong, according to the function of his role. He was completely scrupulous in the execution of his duty, each sentence precisely within the bounds that the law prescribed. He dealt solely in facts, where Oscar expected motivations to be probed, details extracted. Indeed, Oscar had not realized how very much the execution of justice as he understood it was dependent on compassion and mercy. He looked down at his notes, and realized that Gilbert had not even bothered to learn the thief’s name.

“What else?” Gilbert asked.

“One dispute today, my lord,” Randall said.

“Actually, your lordship,” said the man in the leather apron. “My daughter and I have decided to resolve it between ourselves and our neighbor.” He stood and pointed to the man at the far end of the bench, who was nodding vigorously. Meanwhile, Colin ducked his head even further as his shield moved and exposed him to Gilbert’s view.

“Very well,” Gilbert said, appearing to take no notice of his usual scribe. “That was refreshingly brief. I do not think there is any need to go through this ritual daily. One day each week should be sufficient from now on.”

“Do you mean we should keep those arrested imprisoned for so long, my lord?” Randall asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

“Store them up until there are enough to merit my time,” Gilbert said. He levered himself up with the support of his cane and stumped back toward the antechamber. The doors were thrown open, a sigh of frigid air immediately flooding the room, and the crowd began to quickly disperse. By the time Oscar looked, Nicholas had already disappeared. Colin hovered nervously at the end of his bench, staring at Oscar with wide eyes. Oscar waved him up, while Randall’s back was turned, and the boy dashed quickly to the front of the hall to trade scrolls with Oscar.

“Well done,” Oscar told him. “Now go around and wait beside the antechamber door. I’ll open it in just a few minutes.”

“Alright,” Colin said with a quick nod. He scurried off, slipping through the doors just as they were closed and barred.

Oscar took a quick glance at the scroll as he made his way to the antechamber, surprised by the level of detail that Colin had managed to record despite the ruthlessly abbreviated questioning. It was an impressive effort, far more thorough than Oscar’s, and he did not see how Gilbert could take any issue with it.

The sight of the magistrate reclining in the chair in the antechamber stirred Oscar’s resentment once more. There were many things Oscar wanted to say to him, about the way he had conducted the tribunal, but he clamped his lips firmly closed and proffered the notes instead. Gilbert simply looked at the scroll, until Oscar dropped it on the tabletop and stepped back.

“Update the record,” Gilbert told him, pointing to the large tome on the table. “Then you may go.”

“You haven’t even looked at the notes,” Oscar said.

“Are you not a trifle old to be begging for a pat on the head?” Gilbert asked, his brow creasing in clear irritation.

Oscar clenched his fists behind him and said evenly, “I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you give me some idea of whether I’ve met your expectations.”

“I did not realize you were so impudent.” Gilbert scowled at him, and snatched the scroll in an arthritic hand.

Oscar stood silently while he looked it over. 

“They are quite thorough,” was the verdict, as Gilbert dropped the scroll to the table once more.

“Nothing missing?” Oscar pressed him.

“Nothing of note. Are you satisfied now?”

“I am,” Oscar told him “As I’m sure the one who wrote them will be.”

Gilbert shot Oscar a narrow glare. “What do you mean by that?”

Oscar smirked, took two steps to the door, and pulled it open. “Colin?”

Colin shuffled hesitantly into the room, his cap twisted in his hands once more. He bit his lip as he looked between Oscar and Gilbert.

“What is the meaning of this? You deceived me?” Gilbert pushed himself to feet, snatching up his cane and brandishing it like a sword in Colin’s direction. The boy flinched, eyeing the weapon in a way that confirmed Oscar’s suspicions.

“I did,” he said, stepping between Gilbert and Colin, “to prove that you have been punishing him undeservedly.”

“Who are you to question me?” Gilbert demanded.

“Someone who’s not afraid to tell you that you have much farther to go if you wish to live up to the standards Cedric has set for your post. If you did not want the role of magistrate, you should have told the king so, not taken out your frustrations on a helpless boy.”

Gilbert rapped the cane sharply on the table, his face ruddy and enraged. “How I choose to discipline my apprentice is none of your concern.”

“He’s not your apprentice, though, is he?” a smooth voice asked from the door. Oscar felt his eyes widen as Nicholas sauntered into the room and into the conversation, as calmly as though they had all been expecting them. “It is hardly good manners to treat borrowed things so carelessly.”

“What business is it of yours, archivist?” Gilbert sneered. “What’s going on here?”

Nicholas shrugged, a casual hand coming to rest on Colin’s shoulder. “Perhaps I merely wish to procure the help of this most able scribe whose talents are going to waste under your tutelage.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You hardly need a scribe,” Nicholas said reasonably, “if what I witnessed today is the sum of your work. I am sure you are more than capable of keeping records to Cedric’s satisfaction on such straightforward crimes without assistance. I, on the other hand, have many tasks that need to be accomplished. Perhaps I will borrow him until Cedric asks for him back.”

Gilbert’s expression was set in a mask of pure hatred, but he was at a disadvantage against Nicholas, and Oscar had a sudden surge of overwhelming gratitude for the archivist.

“Well?” Oscar said. “Do you want a scribe or not?”

“Very well,” Gilbert said, his hand clenched tight on the handle of his cane. “You have proven your point.”

“And his education?” Nicholas said. “I trust you will see to that as well, in his master’s absence?”

“I will,” Gilbert ground out.

“Excellent,” Nicholas said cheerfully. He patted Colin once more. “If that’s all, then I will take my own assistant and leave you to it.”

Colin was staring at Nicholas, his face shining with that pure admiration that Oscar remembered so well from their first few meetings. He smiled, relieved to see that innocence was still untouched, and gave Colin a gentle nudge. To his surprise, that glowing smile was turned next on him, the pure gratitude nearly blinding.

“Thank you, Oscar.”

“Don’t mention it,” Oscar said, leaning down to whisper in his ear, “and you know where to find me if you need me.”

Nicholas had already turned to leave, so Oscar quickly followed, falling into step with him on the frosty path.

“That was unusually kind of you,” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nicholas said airily. “I was merely ensuring that I would not be forced to suffer yet another day without any proper assistance.”

“Yes, alright,” Oscar said, rolling his eyes for Nicholas’s benefit. He should have suspected that Nicholas would take an interest in Colin’s struggles, from what Oscar knew of his own history, but he was happy to let the archivist play aloof if that suited him better than accepting thanks for his aid. It was enough to know what he had done, that under the bluster was a man worth respecting.

“Although,” Nicholas continued, “based on what I have seen today, I might seriously consider stealing that lad from Cedric.” He pulled a crumpled scroll from his sleeve, waving it at Oscar.

“What are you doing with that?” Oscar demanded, snatching at the parchment.

“I appropriated it from Colin,” Nicholas said. He snatched it from Oscar’s reach and unrolled it, looking the uneven strokes over critically. “It is truly astounding the difference proper training makes. This is nearly illegible.”

“They weren’t meant to be read,” Oscar said, fighting an embarrassed blush. “They were just for the appearance.”

“I expect you to take more care with the records you will be copying,” Nicholas admonished him. “You have fallen behind, but that is no excuse for shoddy work.”

“Oscar!” called a familiar voice, drawing his attention to the tower gate. Emma stood there, out of breath with her cap askew. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“What is it?” Oscar asked, his steps speeding to close the distance.

Emma glanced at Nicholas and back to Oscar. “What we were waiting for,” she said breathlessly. “It happened.”

A shock ran down Oscar’s legs and his heart began to pound with anticipation. “When?” he demanded. 

“Just now,” Emma said. “There’s still time to catch her.”

Nicholas watched their exchange with one lifted brow. “I suppose you’re about to tell me that you need time still?”

“Please.” Oscar nodded. “Just an hour or two more.”

Nicholas glanced heavenward and waved Oscar off. “Very well. Hurry back, else I really will trade you for Colin.”

Oscar grinned. “He wouldn’t be nearly as much fun for you to torment.”

Nicholas did not dignify that with a response, leaving Oscar alone with Emma. She was bouncing on her toes, watching him expectantly.

“Well?” Oscar asked. “What are we waiting for?”

Emma’s grin was all teeth. “Nothing. Let’s go and get her.”


	53. Chapter 53

Oscar followed Emma around the corner of the tower wall at a lope, his longer strides easily keeping pace with her hurried steps. She held her skirts up as she ran, too set on her purpose to notice when her cap flew from her head. Oscar caught it in one hand, tucking it into his own belt.

“Are you certain you know where she lives?” he called.

“I followed her last night.”

“By yourself?” Oscar asked, frowning at her back. “I would have gone with you if you had told me.”

Emma looked back over her shoulder to shoot him a glare. “I can handle myself, and don’t you dare think otherwise.”

She turned suddenly into a narrow alleyway that led away from the castle, drawing gradually to a halt as she neared the mouth at the opposite end. She stopped just short of the small square beyond and pressed her back flat to the wall. Oscar did the same beside her, peering over her head at the building opposite. It was a two-story tenement of wattle and daub that suffered from an alarming tilt toward the house beside it, the eaves just touching.

“She must be inside,” Emma whispered.

“What if we’re too late? She might have been and gone already.”

Emma shook her head. “It hasn’t been that long since she left the tower. Just wait a few moments.”

“I hope you’re right.” Oscar leaned his head back against the wall behind him, looking up at the narrow slice of sky visible between the roofs of the buildings. “I didn’t mean to say that you couldn’t handle yourself, by the way. I wish you had told me, though. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are,” Emma said at once, “but you had other concerns. Besides, I wasn’t alone.”

“What?” Oscar tore his eyes from the sky to look at her. “You weren’t?”

“No,” Emma said, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. “Dunstan was with me.”

“Dunstan?” Oscar parroted incredulously. “You’re keeping company with Dunstan now? What would you even have to talk about?”

“Your idiocy, for one,” Emma snapped. “Just because you’ve had your head caught up in Alice’s skirts doesn’t mean time has stopped for the rest of us.”

Oscar sighed, and thumped his head back against the wall, his regrets falling over him again like a shroud. “No. You’re right, of course.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said softly. “That was unkind.”

“No more than I deserve,” Oscar said. “I’m glad you two are friends.”

“He’s a good friend to have, in a pinch.”

“He is certainly that.” Dunstan was only one of many good friends that Oscar had ignored or outright betrayed in his blindness. He decided it was well past time to reclaim those friendships, just as soon as he had dealt with the most pressing matter.

“Quiet,” Emma hissed. “Someone’s coming.” Her small arm flew across Oscar’s chest, pressing him back to the wall. He flattened himself as much as he was able, hoping the shadows of the alley would conceal them as the door of the tenement opened.

He recognized Alice at once. She was still in her pale pink shift, though her cap and apron had been traded for a woolen bonnet that concealed her golden curls. She was pursued out the door by an older woman with a wild thatch of tangled gray hair.

“I saw you! Don’t think I didn’t! What are you doing here at midday, lazy child? Get back to your work!”

Alice ignored her, hurrying away from the door with her head down. The woman shrieked something unintelligible at her back. She stumbled, and caught herself on the doorframe. She wavered there a moment, then used her grip to lurch back inside. As soon as she was gone, Emma set off at a run in the direction Alice had taken, Oscar on her heels.

They caught Alice again as they entered the main street, and slowed their pace to maintain a careful distance lest they be seen. Alice did not look back, walking with purpose. They wove their way through the crowd, keeping her in sight, though it quickly became apparent to Oscar that her destination was the main market.

Sure enough, she led them at last to a row of stalls displaying a dazzling array of trinkets and curiosities. She passed three of them before she stopped to speak to an old woman with a ragged scarf wrapped around her head. From her stall, she was peddling pendants, bracelets and other baubles in a variety of metals.

Emma pulled Oscar behind a wooden staircase with just enough of a gap to hide them. They stared out between the slats of the stairs at Emma’s back as she said something and the woman responded. Alice pulled something from beneath her bonnet and showed it to the shopkeeper.

“What is it?” Emma demanded, shoving her elbow into Oscar’s ribs.

“Why do you think I would know?”

“You’re taller!”

“That doesn’t help if her back is turned!”

Emma huffed, and stood on her tiptoes to try to get a better view. It was fruitless, as the mysterious object disappeared into the woman’s hand and she placed a few silver coins in Alice’s palm in exchange.

“She’s coming back!” Emma squeaked.

“Just be still,” Oscar told her. “Don’t look at her.”

They both turned their faces away. Alice passed by them, so close Oscar held his breath, but she did not take note of them. Then they watched her go, tracking her silently until she turned a corner and was lost from their sight. Emma looked at Oscar, one brow raised, and he nodded.

Emma led the way to the stall, her determined steps betraying her excitement. “What did she sell you just now?” she burst out, startling the shopkeeper.

The old woman closed her hand tight around whatever it was she held, her eyes narrowed in bare suspicion. “What business is it of yours?”

“I need to see it,” Emma said. “It’s been stolen.”

“Makes no difference to me. I won’t be giving it back. I paid for it fair and proper.”

Emma took a breath, preparing for an argument, but Oscar put a hand on her arm, stepping forward.

“How about this?” he said, “I’ll buy it from you. What do you want for it?”

The woman’s eyes lit with avaricious glee, sensing an easy mark. “Eight shillings!”

“Let me see it first,” Oscar demanded.

He was met with another suspicious look, but at last the shopkeeper opened her hand and revealed the prize Alice had stolen. It was a brooch, a silver frame set with mother of pearl and accents of some sort of red lacquer.

“Eight shillings?” Emma snorted. “That’s hardly worth four.”

“Worth more to you than any other old brooch, though, isn’t it?” The shopkeeper’s thin lips opened in a stained smile. “It’s eight, or you can run along home without.”

Seeing no alternative, Oscar tugged his purse from his belt and turned it out into his palm, pinching the leather carefully so that the key hidden there did not escape. He counted out the coins.

“Six is all I have,” he said, “but it’s still more than you’ll get from anyone else.”

“Done.” The woman reached for the coins, but Oscar quickly closed his hand around them.

“That’s not all,” he said. “You’re also going to come with us and attest that she sold it to you.”

“I never agreed to such a thing!” the shopkeeper said.

“You’re not in any danger,” Emma assured her. “We just need a witness.”

“I’ll not be putting my name to any official complaint. I’m just conducting my business, and I don’t need any bother from royal types.”

“If you come with us, I’ll give you four more shillings. They’re in the castle.” Oscar was not entirely comfortable with the offer. The coin he promised was not his. It was no true theft, as Wamba had told him clearly enough he was to use the money as needed, but he prayed the reason was urgent enough that Wamba would understand.

“Ten shillings for an hour’s trouble,” Emma cajoled. “Surely you’ve never had a better bargain than that.”

The woman watched them suspiciously a moment longer, before she made up her mind. “Just let me close up my shop.”

Emma and Oscar helped her pack away her goods and took her straight to Gregory. They found him better rested than on their previous visit, if no less frayed.

He shuffled distractedly through a mound of parchment. “You’ve just missed Lady Emmeline,” he said, “bawling about a missing heirloom.”

“Is this it?” Emma asked.

Gregory’s hands stilled as he looked up at them. His mouth dropped open and he reached out to take the brooch from her hand. He rubbed it thoughtfully between his fingers with an expression of pure disbelief. “I do believe it is. Where did you get this?”

“From our friend here,” Oscar told him, “after we witnessed Alice sell it to her.”

“Really?” Gregory stood, looking at the old woman. “Tell me more. Has she brought you other jewels before?”

“She brought all manner,” the shopkeeper said.

“When did you first see her?”

“Before Christmas, it was, and again every week or so since.”

“And you never thought to wonder how she happened to have so many costly baubles on hand?”

“Pretty thing, isn’t she? Lovelies like that get all sorts of trinkets from their suitors. Not my business if she doesn’t want to keep them.”

“Do you have any more of these trinkets still on hand?” Gregory asked.

“Might have,” the woman said with a shrug, “and might not. Can’t say for certain.”

“Then we will determine later whether anything in your possession matches the items that have gone missing from our guest chambers.”

“I was promised I wouldn’t get any trouble!” the shopkeeper protested.

“No trouble, I assure you,” Gregory said. “You will be fairly compensated for your wares, however they came into your possession.”

Oscar quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. “Are you sure your father will agree to that?” he whispered. Alard was notoriously tight fisted, a quality that made him a superior steward but also a general aggravation to any who had dealings with him.

“We need her cooperation,” Gregory muttered back, “and he would not miss a chance to curry favor with members of the court. As long as you have no trouble letting him take the credit, we can get the proof you and Emma want to badly.”

Oscar frowned. “I’m not interested in collecting favors from the nobility. As long as Alice is gone, I’ll not ask for more.”

“Alright,” Gregory said. “Let me talk to him. You wait here.”

He vanished into the steward’s office, taking the shopkeeper with him. Emma and Oscar waited as they had been told, anxiety mounting as the minutes passed. When the door opened again, it was Alard who emerged, his thin face dark as a thundercloud ready to burst and unleash its wrath.

“Giles!” he bellowed.

The guard opened the door, standing ready for Alard’s orders.

“Go and find this chambermaid.” Alard snapped his fingers at Gregory. “What’s her name?”

“Alice,” Emma said. “She should be in the north wing of the guest chambers at this time of day. There or the kitchens.”

“Go and fetch her at once!”

Giles nodded and closed the door once more, leaving Alard in search of a new outlet for his fuming ire. His eyes fell on Oscar, alight with hatred, and Oscar immediately braced himself.

“You!” the steward snapped. “You’re the one who discovered this outrage?”

“Not me, sir” Oscar quickly deflected. “Emma was the one who realized what Alice was doing. I only helped her find proof.”

Alard’s hard stare bored into Emma next. “Emma, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Emma squeaked, stiffening under the attention.

“I suppose you are to be commended,” Alard said grudgingly.

“Oh! Thank you, sir!”

“Don’t expect anything more,” the steward added with a sneer.

“No,” Emma stuttered. “Of course not, sir.”

Alard scowled at her, but any further questioning was forestalled when Giles delivered him a better target for his temper. Alice looked around at the gathering with surprise as she was led into the room. “You needed me, sir?” she asked Alard.

“I need nothing from you but the truth,” the steward said.

“I don’t understand,” Alice said, her voice very small. Wide eyes turned on Oscar, a plea in their blue depths. “Oscar? What’s going on?”

Oscar looked away, and said nothing.

“That is the question posed to you,” the steward snapped. “Come in here.”

Alice stepped forward, but it was not she who had been summoned. From the steward’s office, the shopkeeper appeared. All the color fled at once from Alice’s face.

“Explain to me why you were discovered selling our noble guests’ possessions in the marketplace,” Alard said.

“Sir,” Alice whimpered, “there must be some mistake.”

“Don’t make those eyes at me, girl. I know a liar when I see one. You have been witnessed doing these things. I will have an explanation.”

“I didn’t do anything! I’ve never seen this woman before! It’s her!” Alice flung her hand out toward Emma. “She’s been against me since the first day! She’s paid this shopkeeper to tell lies about me because she’s jealous.”

“As though you have anything worth coveting,” Emma scoffed.

“Interesting that you can tell she’s a shopkeeper when you claim to have never met her,” Oscar observed quietly.

Alice gasped, realizing her mistake. Her eyes glanced desperately about the room like those of a trapped animal. “Gregory, you believe me, don’t you? I’ve only tried to do my duty well!”

“I thought that was true,” Gregory said stiffly, “but clearly I misjudged you.”

Alice’s eyes were dewy, realizing that she had no allies, and no hope.

Alard regarded her coldly. “You have disgraced the integrity of the royal household itself with your disloyalty, and given many good and faithful servants a reason to resent you. You are dismissed, as of this very moment.”

“But sir,” Alice whimpered, “I need to work.”

“What you need matters not at all. Your time here is finished. Out of respect for your father, and that alone, I will leave it at that. Be grateful it is only your post you are losing, and not your hand or your head.”

Alice buried her face in her hands, and for the first time Oscar thought the tears she shed might be honest.

“Giles,” Alard commanded, “remove her from the tower at once, and inform the guard that she is not to be permitted entry again.”

Giles nodded, taking hold of Alice’s arm.

“Take this woman as well. Bring back whatever trinkets she has that this girl has sold to her.”

“And my payment?” the shopkeeper demanded.

“We will discuss the value of the items once they have been recovered and no sooner,” Alard told her sternly.

Oscar watched Alice go, his chest hot with a fierce satisfaction at seeing her receive her due.

“As for you,” Alard said, pointing a bony finger at his son, “we will discuss your poor judgment at length.”

That was more than sufficient reminder that there was no reason to tarry further within range of the steward’s ill temper. “We’ll be going, then,” Oscar said.

“Yes, get out of my sight.”

Oscar herded Emma before him out the door, closing it quietly behind them. He stared at Emma for a moment. “I still owe her four shillings, don’t I?”

“Perhaps she’ll forget. She’s going to get a lot more than that for the baubles Alice stole.”

“I should pay her regardless,” Oscar decided. “Without her, we would have had no proof at all.”

“But we did have something,” Emma said, and her smile was growing. “I was right. We did it.”

She laughed, light and joyful, and the sound of it cracked Oscar’s restraint. He gave a great guffaw, seizing Emma with both arms about her waist and swinging her around in the corridor. She shrieked and held onto his neck, a tight hug that did not ease even as he set her on her feet again.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No,” Oscar shook his head. “Thank you, Emma.”

She pushed him away with a snort and slapped his arm. “Should we celebrate?”

“Can’t, unfortunately,” Oscar said ruefully. “I have floors to scrub and records to keep. If I waste another moment, Nicholas will be inventing new hells for me by morning.”

Though the tasks that yet awaited him were no small burden, Oscar felt lighter than he had in weeks. The band of iron that had crushed his chest since he woke in the queen’s tower and realized what Alice had done had loosened at last. It was a fantastic relief, to have his greatest concerns be those simple challenges which made up his daily life.

There was still uncertainty, still the emptiness that he could never quite forget, that would not be remedied until he had his lover beside him once more. Despite it, there was more than enough to be thankful for, and there was a spring in Oscar’s step as he said goodbye to Emma and returned to the archive.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

With Alice put from his mind, Oscar’s life settled into a blessedly predictable routine. He did his penance for Nicholas, passing a day on his knees in the archives scrubbing dust and cobwebs from beneath the shelves, and several long nights copying records by candlelight. He worked carefully and deliberately, despite the pressure of the delay, taking sufficient care that he finally won the archivist’s grudging approval.

January slid on into the frigid depths of February, and no word came from York. Oscar made time to reconcile with Dunstan, and through him approached the guard Mitchell as well, to apologize for his hasty actions. He visited with Margaret and with Celia to meet their children, and spent an afternoon commiserating with Gregory over the aftermath of the Alice debacle with his father.

In this way, person by person, Oscar slowly put his world back to order, until only the last and most daunting confession lay before him. His time alone was filled with endless imagining of the best way to explain to Wamba what had happened, and how he could ever hope to make amends. The lingering guilt of the entire episode kept him cautious and sober, and Caspar was his most frequent companion during the long winter evenings.

In its time, March arrived, bearing with it the first hints of sun and warmth, and still no word came from York. The ache of Wamba’s absence was constant, growing more unbearable as the weeks passed, even as the memory of his lover became terrifyingly dim in Oscar’s memory. All trace of his scent had long faded from their bed, every absentmindedly placed possession shifted by other hands. Oscar read the one brief letter he had received over and over, trying to hear the lilting cadence of Wamba’s words in his ear, even as he began to doubt that he could trust his recollection even of that.

Desperate to reclaim something of his lover, he filled the bath one night, and wasted a healthy dose of Wamba’s usual remedy into it. He sank into the warm water, letting the familiar scent conjure the image of Wamba in his mind. The sharp herbal aroma woke an ache in his heart that brought tears to his eyes and, inexplicably, a rush of arousal to his flesh. Hesitantly, he took himself in hand, and came weeping, in the most bewildering climax of his life. He remained in the bath, letting his tears mingle with the milky water, until it cooled.

Inevitably, the days began to warm in earnest and the icy puddles in the yard to melt to mud once more. Oscar’s hope revived along with the first green shoots of spring in the kitchen garden. Then, at last, in the fledgling days of April, the word he had waited for so long came at last.

It was Emma, well informed as ever, who came running to the archive to find him and tell him that the king’s messenger had appeared, bearing with him a satchel full of missives. Oscar hardly waited for her to finish delivering her message before he was off at a run, Nicholas forgotten as he dashed through the castle.

He burst out the door and into the bailey with his heart throbbing in his throat. The messenger was still wrapped in his hood and cloak, pulling scrolls from the pack at his feet and tossing them to the gaggle of pages flocking around him. Oscar shoved his way through this excited crowd to demand, “Do you have anything from Cedric?”

The man handed off one more scroll and squinted at Oscar. “Who are you?”

“Oscar.”

“Oh, yes,” the messenger nodded. “He told me you’re to see to this.”

He swung another bag out from under his cloak and released the buckle, sliding it off of his body. He handed it to Oscar who took it, amazed at the weight that settled in his arms. “All of this?”

“He said you would know what to do with it. That’s all I know.”

Oscar did not waste time with further questions. He thanked the messenger, and buckled the satchel across his own body as he flew back into the keep. If Wamba needed him to distribute his correspondence, Oscar was more than happy to do so. Try though he might to rein in his expectations, he could not but dare to hope that at least some of the messages weighing him down were meant for him. His hands were shaking with anticipation as he upended the pack before the fire. The resulting cascade of scrolls rolled across the table and startled Caspar as they struck his cage. He squawked and fluttered his wings indignantly.

Oscar gasped a breathless apology, though he spared the little lark no more than a glance as he surveyed what Wamba had sent. There were more than a dozen scrolls, each wrapped with a leather thong to keep it tightly coiled. A small number was tucked into the corner of the outer face of every scroll. Oscar sorted through them, wondering what business could have occupied so many volumes and searching for the first, when he noticed a solitary folded square buried beneath them. Curious, he pulled it out from under the pile and gasped out a giddy laugh to discover his name inscribed across the front.

Overjoyed that Wamba had thought to include something for him, even if it was no more than instructions on what to do with the rest, Oscar tore it open, and eagerly began to read.

_Oscar -_

_As you will no doubt have guessed, the storm exceeded even our direst predictions. We were shut up for four full days before we were able to travel about the city. The king has had reports daily since then about the state of the roads south, but it is only this week we have at last had news of a thaw. His majesty is anxious to return to London, and I confess I suffer from the same impatience. A messenger leaves today. By the time he reaches you, we will be on our way as well._

_As for the rest of what I have sent – I hesitated to entrust it to another’s hands, but as I have been able to offer you nothing of news all these many weeks, I thought you might appreciate something to occupy you for these last few days. The winter has been long, and I have had many thoughts I wished to share. You would no doubt think me mad, to hear me speaking to my quills and papers as though they might offer any reply._

_Apart from that, you will also find a true and honest accounting of what I have eaten, to avert the scolding I am sure to receive when I see you again. I trust that with this topic dispensed early, we may spend our words on other things. I look forward to it._

Oscar lowered the letter, and looked at the scrolls again. An uncontainable grin stretched across his face. Not only one or two, but all of these were for him. This vast collection was proof that he had occupied Wamba’s thoughts as often as Wamba had been the object of his own. He could have asked for no better token than Wamba’s words, to devour while he waited for the man himself.

He laid out the scrolls out in order, trying to decide how to ration them. A single messenger traveled more quickly than an entire royal caravan, but if they had set out already there must be no more than a week left to wait. Oscar set aside three scrolls, and packed the rest away carefully for later. Then he opened the first with reverent hands.

What Wamba had recorded was a chaotic collection of thoughts, seemingly as they had occurred to him. Musings on the construction of the castle, the demeanor of the servants and the appointments of his borrowed chamber mingled with irritable commentary on the stubborn height of the snow banks and length of the icicles, observations on what was considered fashionable amongst the nobility and what was not, and the promised accounting of a great many meals. Interwoven into this absurd, wonderful madness was also the story of what Wamba’s visit to York was actually meant to accomplish. His frustrations with the bishop and the church in general bled through in the way he recounted each meeting, but it seemed, from what Oscar was able to glean, that a favorable resolution had been reached after much discussion.

With each successive scroll, Wamba’s voice in Oscar’s memory grew clearer. He fancied he could hear the words with the exact inflection Wamba would give them, knew precisely the expression on Wamba’s face as he had written certain passages. All of it brought the picture of his lover back into focus in his mind, healing the damage that months of distance had done. Still, nothing could have prepared him for how powerfully the sight of Wamba himself would strike.

“Go on.” Nicholas waved him away as soon as word arrived that the king’s party approached London. Oscar ran gratefully to join the servants waiting in the bailey under a dull drizzle that could do nothing to dampen his spirits. He shifted his weight from foot to foot as he tried to calm the rapid canter of his heart. Then finally, in the brief respite between rainstorms, a shout went up at the barbican and the gate creaked into motion, lifting to allow riders to pass.

The king’s vanguard was first, followed by the monarch himself and the rest of the becloaked and bedraggled train behind. There were a score or more horses, but Oscar’s eyes found Wamba at once, riding just behind King Richard. He alone had thrown back his hood, letting his damp hair whip in the wind. He pushed it from his eyes with a pale hand, searching the gathered ranks of servants anxiously. When his gaze met Oscar’s, and held, Oscar’s mind went utterly blank.

His legs moved of their own volition, breaking from his place and compelling him toward Wamba as though bewitched. Wamba had not even bothered to pull his horse to a stop before he was leaping from the saddle, just in time to turn and throw himself into Oscar’s arms.

Oscar wrapped him up in a desperate hug, burying his face in Wamba’s neck while an equally fierce embrace wound around his shoulders. Oscar was immediately enveloped in all the familiar sensations of his lover, the faded shadows of memory bursting to brilliant, searing life.

“Oscar. Oscar.” Wamba whispered his name over and over, a tremulous affirmation to echo the shaking hands carding through Oscar’s hair.

The cold knot of bitter despair in Oscar’s chest began to thaw at last, melting into floods of pure emotion that he could not contain. His chest heaved in a violent burst of relief, his eyes stinging.

Wamba tipped Oscar’s head up so he was forced to reveal his wet face to an understanding gaze. Wamba wiped Oscar’s cheek with a gentle thumb and whispered, “What’s the matter, love?”

“I missed you,” Oscar said, voice very small. It was wretchedly inadequate to convey the true depth of the ache in his heart, but from one glance it was clear that Wamba understood.

He pulled Oscar back, stroking a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I’m sorry.”

“Have you all forgotten your duties? Get those horses in before the blasted rain starts again!”

The king’s irritated bellow startled Oscar from the safety of Wamba’s embrace, back to the courtyard and the horrified realization that their reunion was taking place in full view of the entirety of the castle. He startled back, dropping his eyes and his arms as the assembled people swarmed to envelop king’s party, house servants unloading heavy packs and stable hands coming forward to take the reins of exhausted mounts.

Oscar did not trust himself to maintain his composure if he looked at Wamba, so he turned his attention to his pack instead, pulling it down and slinging it over his own shoulder. Over the back of Wamba’s horse, he caught King Richard smirking at him. Oscar nodded his thanks for the distraction, and received a curt wave in the direction of the castle as the king began shouting orders at his personal servants.

“I’m sure he’s relieved he won’t be obliged to suffer my pining any longer,” Wamba’s quiet voice murmured in Oscar’s ear.

Oscar dared a glance at him. He was smiling, the soft tilt of his mouth inviting Oscar to share in his amusement, but Oscar’s throat was closing again and he could not quite trust himself to speak. He turned instead, carrying Wamba’s pack and leading the way to their chambers. Wamba’s steps followed quietly, keeping pace.

Oscar dropped Wamba’s pack just inside the bedroom door, and went quickly to the hearth to build the fire. It was a reminder of how very little had been done to prepare for Wamba’s return, a new guilt to add to the horror creeping back over him now, that the time had come to admit what he had done and face the consequences.

He decided that there would be time for confessions later. It was most important to see to Wamba first. “Are you hungry?” he asked the smoking logs. “Tired? Do you want a bath?”

“Oscar,” Wamba said quietly, “please come here.”

Oscar sucked in a quick breath, hesitant to turn and face him, as though Wamba might read the truth of his transgressions in his face at once. Steeling himself, he stood and went to Wamba, who waited a few paces from the bed.

Oscar came to a stop before him, eyes fixed firmly on his boots, until Wamba took Oscar’s face between affectionate hands and raised it once more. Oscar knew he was blushing, bashful in a way he had never been with his lover. Wamba simply held him there, studying his face as Oscar did the same. He took in the lovely angles of his features, the warmth of dark eyes, the scar on his cheek, every bit of him familiar and beloved, and slowly his nerves began to fade.

Whatever it was Wamba sought in his face, he must have found it, for he smiled and pulled Oscar closer for a slow, tender kiss. Just that simple touch, once and then again, taking time to reacquaint them in this way, lulling Oscar with the gentleness of it. On the third return, Oscar’s mouth opened, and Wamba’s lips parted in the same moment, so that when they met they shared a breath, and Oscar was falling again, into the soft, slick pleasure of it that turned the persistent ache in his heart to something sharp and sweet.

Oscar had imagined this reunion to be a thing of heat and desperation. Instead, it was slow, relearning one another by small degrees and discovering anew the irresistible rightness of it. Wamba’s hands brushed through Oscar’s hair, caressing his scalp in leisurely sweeps that sent shivering frissons of pleasure down his spine. Oscar’s hands, when he finally found the courage to lay them on Wamba’s body, were delicate, as though his lover were an illusion of smoke and shadow that might dissolve beneath too forceful a touch.

By the time Wamba finally pulled away, Oscar was so enraptured with him he was nearly drunk on it. His eyes drifted closed as he reveled in the gentle kisses Wamba pressed to the edge of his mouth and his jaw.

“How are you, Oscar?” Wamba murmured.

“Better now that you’re here,” Oscar confessed.

Wamba laughed, and Oscar’s heart leapt in answer. It felt like centuries since he had heard that beloved sound, the rasping edge on the mellow voice.

It woke a hunger in him, but he was not the one who was weary from a week on the road, so he held his desire firmly in check to ask, “What do you need?”

Wamba smiled at him, sweet and knowing and very close, and said, “I have thought of little but you all winter. Surely you will not ask me to wait yet longer for your touch.”

A laugh burst from Oscar’s throat, a healing rush of joy coursing through him. Gently, he helped Wamba shed his cloak, his shirt, his trousers, kissing every new part of him that was revealed, before quickly throwing off his own clothing. Wamba was thinner than when he had left, but his warning had prepared Oscar for that. He made no comment, but lifted Wamba up onto the edge of the bed. Wamba leaned back on his hands and spread his legs, opening himself up for Oscar to rediscover. With that permission granted, Oscar set out to make a feast of his lover, to lick his way down the tendons of his neck, lap salt from the hollows of his collarbones, trace the dips and curves of his chest down to his belly.

The scent of him was intoxicating, and Oscar buried his nose in the join of Wamba's hip and breathed deep, nuzzling into the thatch of soft hair there. Oscar’s cock throbbed urgently where it hung heavy between his legs, but his own desire was not his most pressing concern. He mouthed gently at the velvet skin of Wamba’s sex, already swollen with need, but Wamba’s hands were abruptly on him, pulling him up to meet wide blown eyes.

“No,” Wamba said. “It’s been too long. I want you inside me.”

Oscar whimpered, biting down hard on his lip. He met Wamba’s eyes and sheepishly confessed, “I don’t know if I can last that long.”

Wamba licked his lips and smiled, a hint of mischief creeping into his eyes. Oscar did not even have time to brace himself as Wamba rose up and, in one smooth motion, pushed Oscar back just far enough that he could bend and swallow Oscar’s cock. His hand slipped between Oscar’s thighs as he did, the warm palm cradling his bollocks as a single finger pressed up just behind them. The shock was like nothing Oscar had experienced before, sparks flying through him and a climax erupting without warning.

He shouted, and his legs wobbled. Wamba caught him under the arms and pulled him down to rest so that his chest lay atop Wamba’s, heaving as he rode out the waning shock and his vision gradually cleared.

“Why did you do that?” he panted, blinking and shaking his head.

“Surely you have not aged so much in these few months that you are exhausted so early,” Wamba said, smirking at Oscar.

Oscar could not help but laugh, the physical relief coupled with the return to the comfortable balance between them, the tenor of their relationship intact even after their prolonged separation. So Oscar set about to repay him in kind. He hooked his hands beneath Wamba’s knees and tugged him down to the edge of the bed, so that he fell back atop the furs, and snatched the oil that had sat so forlornly on the bed table for months to perform the familiar motions of preparing Wamba’s body.

He brushed the tips of his fingers over the little furl between Wamba’s legs, spreading the oil before he dared press inside. He was surprised to meet an unusually stiff resistance, but of course it was only that Wamba had been untouched for months. It made Oscar’s heart swell, this small proof of his lover’s fidelity, even as it reminded him starkly of his own faithlessness that he had yet to confess. Contrition as much as devotion compelled Oscar to go slowly, taking care with Wamba as he opened him.

Wamba’s head fell back, his throat bared in a wanton invitation that Oscar took at once, marking the pale skin with gentle nips even as his hand never stilled. Temporarily sated as he was, he could have passed an hour or more just on pleasuring his lover that way, but Wamba grew impatient within minutes, grasping Oscar’s wrist in a firm hand.

“Enough,” he gasped. “Let me have you now.”

Oscar was more than happy to oblige. He slid into Wamba with one smooth push, slow and inexorable until his belly was pressed tight to Wamba’s skin. He thought to wait, to let Wamba grow accustomed to the shape of him once more, but Wamba was tugging at his hips, demanding more. Oscar pushed his legs wider, and finally gave him a hard thrust, his body unerringly remembering the angle.

That was all it took. Wamba’s head snapped back, his muscles tightened, and he came. Oscar slid one arm beneath his hips and did not stop moving, keeping up a steady pace as Wamba spilled between them, as he began to shake and whimper with the relentless stimulation. He clutched at Oscar’s shoulders, clinging to him to keep from being washed away in the storm.

Oscar held him just as fiercely, pressing deep as though he could by will alone bring them close enough that nothing could impose such a separation on them again. Sooner than he expected, the precipice of climax was creeping close once more, but he refused to jump until Wamba was ready to fall along with him. He caught Wamba’s mouth with his, swallowing the rising moans that spilled from his throat, savoring each press and retreat, hard and deliberate until they were both shaking, desperate for release.

Wamba came again with a soft gasp, his mouth breaking from Oscar’s as his body shuddered in waves. Oscar quickly followed, Wamba’s climax giving him license to embrace his own. He convulsed as it rolled over him and scoured him raw with its intensity, stealing his vision and thoughts. Once it passed, he lay panting, resting atop Wamba.

Then his breath hitched, and before he knew it Oscar was weeping. Great heaving sobs rocked him, growing more distraught as Wamba’s arms wrapped around him and his soft voice murmured in his ear. “It’s alright, Oscar. It’s alright. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar gasped into Wamba’s shoulder, though what the apology was meant to encompass he could not rightly say.

“Don’t be,” Wamba said, gentle hands stroking Oscar’s shoulders as he wept. “You were right. I should have convinced the king to wait until spring. There was no need for such haste. It only caused us all unnecessary grief.”

His calm voice steadied Oscar, enough that he could pull away and shift them both properly onto the bed, side by side. “You accomplished what you meant to?”

Wamba smiled as he brushed traces of moisture from Oscar’s cheeks. He was flushed and disheveled, safe and well-loved, utterly pleasing to Oscar’s eyes. “Did I forget to mention that in my note?”

“I don’t think you can rightly call all those scrolls a note,” Oscar said. “I can’t believe you sent them with the king’s courier. I’ve never even heard of such a thing. You’re absolutely mad.”

“On the contrary,” Wamba laughed, “the writing of them was the only thing that kept me sane. Hopefully they brought you some diversion at least?”

“Yes,” Oscar said. “Of course. Thank you.”

“Then my foolishness has wrought something of worth.” Wamba’s face was soft a content, and Oscar could not resist leaning in to claim another kiss from him, supping gently at his mouth.

His hand wandered to Wamba’s hip, thumb brushing over the soft peak of bone there. Oscar was debating whether he had the stamina for one more coupling when a knock on the library door interrupted them.

Oscar lifted his head to glare balefully in the direction of the distraction. He decided to ignore it, and leaned down to lick Wamba’s mouth open once more.

“Aren’t you going to see who it is?” Wamba asked between kisses.

“No."

Wamba pushed Oscar away. “It might be important.”

“Whoever it is can come back tomorrow.”

Another knock sounded, loud and insistent. Oscar pressed his brow to Wamba's shoulder and loosed a frustrated sigh. Defeated, he shoved himself up from the bed, dragging his trousers on hastily as he went.

He tore open the door and narrowed his eyes at the page waiting on the other side. “What is it?”

“A message for Lord Cedric,” the boy said, holding out a folded and sealed letter in a hesitant hand.

“Very well,” Oscar said, snatching it from him. "Away with you."

He did not wait for the page to acknowledge the dismissal, merely closed the door and returned to the bedchamber, though his irritation could not survive the sight of Wamba’s nude form draped limp and sated across the furs. An irresistible smile curled his lips as Oscar crawled up beside Wamba and dangled the note above his face.

“It’s for you.”

“Thank you.” Wamba lifted one sluggish arm to take the letter, prying the seal open and holding it above him to read. Within moments, his expression grew grim and he pushed himself up so he was sitting beside Oscar.

“What is it?” Oscar asked him, unable to quash his growing trepidation.

Wamba looked at him, his brows drawn down and all the blood faded from his cheeks. “It’s a summons.”

“From the king?”

“No,” Wamba said, “from the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex.


	55. Chapter 55

“Well, he certainly did not waste any time.”

King Richard threw the letter down on the table and stared at it in narrow-eyed displeasure. Oscar shared his frustration. The note was brief and uninformative, demanding only that Wamba present himself at once to the archbishop, on pain of forceful detainment should he fail to do so. It offered no further detail as for what charge he might be expected to answer. It was alarming enough that Wamba had chosen to disturb the king in his private chambers.

“The roads from York have been clear less than a fortnight,” Wamba said doubtfully. “Whatever questions he has for me might be unrelated to the conference there.”

“Have you been amusing yourself antagonizing additional members of the clergy without my knowledge?” King Richard turned his critical gaze on Wamba as he seated himself in the luxuriously padded chair at the head of his table. Oscar had never been inside the king’s apartments before, but he hardly had any attention to be amazed at the opulence around him, too consumed with what the archbishop’s mysterious summons might mean.

“Not that I am aware,” Wamba said, “but as he serves as your Lord Chancellor in addition to his role as archbishop, he may wish to dispute an issue of justice unrelated to the church.”

“Highly doubtful,” the king waved off the suggestion. “The fact that he chose to direct his action to you rather than to me tells me clear enough he has some confidence that I will not side with him in the unnamed matter.”

“What were you doing in York that you managed to bring the head of the church down on you?” Oscar asked.

“Bishop Langton was less than pleased with me for bringing the king into his affairs,” Wamba explained, his shoulders dropping. “It reflects poorly on him and his ability to maintain the authority of the church independent of the crown. While I did not intend as much, our intervention has caused him to appear weak before his allies and his enemies alike. He is a very ambitious man, and most unwilling to suffer any who might pose an obstacle to his rise.”

Oscar snorted. From Wamba, a charge of ambition was never a compliment. “So you made him look a fool, and he ran crying to the archbishop?”

“This was not an unforeseen possibility,” Wamba said. “I did all that I could to approach the matter in a way that allowed him to preserve his reputation, but he insisted on allying himself firmly with the Abbot of Whalley and declaring my testimony null in a public assembly.”

“A more childish bout of blustering and slinging of insults I have not witnessed since I reclaimed my crown from my brother,” the king said.

“You did come to some agreement, though, didn’t you?” Oscar asked. “You said you had resolved the issue.”

“I would call it perhaps more of a truce than a true agreement,” Wamba said. “Your less than ideal method of obtaining the church records drew some accusation of falsification from the abbot.”

“We never would have found them otherwise!” Oscar protested, dismayed that Wamba might be hindered by his actions. “If you had asked for them, the abbot would just have destroyed them and then we would have had nothing.”

“I know, Oscar. I agree. Fortunately, we were able to prove as much with the assistance of your friend Father Alfred. In the end, Bishop Langton conceded to appoint a new abbot.”

“So it worked!” Oscar said. “Brix and his brother are both removed!”

“I would not have thought you so naive as to believe in such tidy resolutions,” the king said, raising a brow at Oscar. “The abbot has been given a deaconship at York on the condition that he have no further dealings with ecclesiastical justice of any kind.”

“You mean he was given even more power within the church?” Oscar asked incredulously.

“That is the way of things among the higher ranks of the holy orders,” Wamba nodded. “For all they demand confession and penance of their congregants, they are remarkably hesitant to take responsibility for misdeeds perpetrated by any of their own number.”

“Thus is the trap of infallibility,” the king snorted, “one with which I myself have grappled from time to time.”

“On that, I will make no remark,” Wamba said, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a faint smile.

“At last you display something of prudence,” the king said. “Though it may be too late for that. I am inclined to suspect that whatever bird was chirping in the archbishop’s ear might have been less concerned with the abbot’s fate than certain accusations leveled against you personally.”

“What accusations?” Oscar demanded, looking sharply at Wamba.

“Of heresy,” Wamba said quietly, glancing over at Oscar and quickly away, “and of sodomy.”

Oscar’s blood turned icy in his veins, even as his face began to burn with an uncontrollable flush of mortified horror. “How could he know that?”

“Some servant at the inn, perhaps,” Wamba shrugged, “or an observer at the mediation. Perhaps he said it simply to unnerve me with the insinuation. Either charge carries a harsh penalty, and he is accustomed to using threats to achieve his objectives. In the end, he could offer no proof, and the bishop dismissed it.”

“It is a lucky thing you were not present when that particular allegation was made,” King Richard noted with a smirk. “One look at you would be all the proof they needed.”

Oscar stared at him, horrified that Wamba had been forced to face such danger. Wamba had warned Oscar, many times, how vital it was to protect the secrecy of their affair, even as Oscar had continued to push against the boundary of Wamba’s resolve. He had viewed it mostly as a game, collecting small gestures of affection and acknowledgement at every opportunity. His mind flashed back across many small victories that seemed so petty in light of the risk they had brought, from his refusal of a servant’s pallet in Blackburn to the incautious embrace in the bailey that very day. It had never occurred to him that his jealous actions might endanger Wamba’s life.

“Regardless,” Wamba said pointedly, “it was likely said as a threat, to scare me away from challenging his authority.”

“Empty threat or not, you should be more cautious in future,” the king said. “Displays such as the one you put on earlier only feed the rumors, and even my word cannot gainsay that which so many eyes have witnessed.”

“Yes, sire,” Wamba said, with an humble bow. Oscar quickly mimicked him, unwilling to let Wamba take the blame for a predicament that was largely Oscar’s fault.

“As no proof of any wrongdoing on your part was brought to light at York, I find it unlikely the archbishop had anything more damning at his disposal,” King Richard said. “Therefore, he has no cause to summon you without first bringing his concerns to my attention.”

“There is one way to be certain,” Wamba said.

“You will not speak with him alone. I am well familiar with your lack of regard for your own safety.” The king tapped the letter on the table. “Leave this with me. I will send an official reply, and summon him here tomorrow. We will have this conversation on my terms, not his. ”

“If I may, sire,” Wamba said, “hiding behind your authority does nothing to prove my innocence. Just the opposite, it will appear that there was something improper in my actions in challenging the bishop that requires your intervention. The business in York looks like a challenge to the church, and some concern on the part of its leader is to be expected. I think it would be prudent to show proper deference to his position in this instance.”

“You suggest I should bow to my own official?” the king asked darkly.

“No, sire,” Wamba said, “but at least let him hold this interview on his own ground. If he is thwarted in this, he might seek out opportunities for reprisal later.”

The king hummed, rubbing a hand through his beard. “I will consider your counsel. Come to my study tomorrow morning and I will tell you what I have decided.”

“Thank you, sire.”

Dismissed, they returned silently to their chambers, where Wamba’s pack lay unopened and the bed a tumbled mess. Caspar whistled as the library door opened, hopping eagerly across his perch.

“Why, hello there, Caspar,” Wamba chuckled. He bent down to peer through the wicker bars at the little lark. “Have you been keeping Oscar out of trouble while I was away?”

He grinned at Oscar, but Oscar could not make his mouth form an answering smile. He leaned back against the door, pulling in slow, deep breaths. He could not ignore the foreboding that had fallen over him, a worry to pair with the guilt that was already near suffocating.

Wamba’s smile faded, and he went to take Oscar’s hands in his and guide him down to sit on the couch. “There’s no need to fear, Oscar. It will be a simple conversation, nothing more.”

“How do you know?” Oscar said. “The church is an authority unto itself. What if they decide to put you on trial? What if they have proof?”

“There is very little they can do to me that has not been done already, in one form or another.” Wamba’s smile was meant to be reassuring, but it only reminded Oscar of how terrible Wamba was at fighting for himself, and his worries redoubled.

“That's not true,” Oscar whispered. “They can execute you.”

Wamba laughed ruefully at that, one hand rubbing at his neck. “As I said.”

Oscar could not help but reach for him, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him close and whisper into his neck, “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Wamba asked, brushing a hand over Oscar’s cheek.

“For putting you in danger. You tried to make me understand, but I was too idiotic to realize how much risk there was in letting others see us.”

“Do not take all that blame upon yourself,” Wamba said gently. “I have grown bolder than I should at times, where unfriendly eyes might see.”

Oscar swallowed, trying to contain the despair at the unfairness of it. “I wish we did not have to hide this way. Is it really so terrible a sin?”

Wamba sighed, sitting back on the couch and folding his hands in his lap. “I cannot say, Oscar. I thought it was, once, but I find it harder and harder to believe that now. I cannot fathom the mysteries of why the church declares some unions pure and others corrupt. What sin is it to love? What sin to devote yourself to another?”

“I do not think devotion is the heart of their objection.”

“You’re correct, of course. There are many whose love is above physical desire. It is only the joining of bodies that the church forbids.” Wamba’s gaze was distant, staring into the fire. “When I was young, it seemed to me a weapon, something cruel men did to prove their power, with no care for who they hurt by it. They reveled in the hurt, more often than not. I have wondered, at times, whether God sent those men to cure me of my aberrance, to drive from me anything that could take pleasure in such an act. I could find no other explanation for why they seemed to find me so unerringly.”

“Wamba,” Oscar whispered, his heart breaking for all that Wamba had suffered, but of which he rarely spoke.

“If that was His intent, then I must be truly beyond redemption, for the first time my master touched me it felt right.” Wamba smiled sadly, and took Oscar’s hand. “You feel right, and I will not waste another moment denying it. You and I have proven well enough that we cannot exist as mere companions. We must be this or we must part ways entirely, and that is something I cannot willingly choose. Perhaps if we were two minstrels or two merchants, we could live in peace without fear of such scrutiny. Perhaps not. All I can say is that if it is indeed a sin to want this with you, then I am content to be a sinner, and I will take the blame for both of us when our time of reckoning comes.”

“What makes you think I would let you face any such trial alone?” Oscar said with a scowl. “We are happy sinners both, and God can judge us as such.”

The laugh that won him was soft and sweet, as were the hands that turned his face and smoothed the frown from his brow. “That day will come in time,” Wamba said, his smile turned inviting. “For now, I would not mind tarnishing my soul a bit further, if you are of a similar mind.”

Oscar pulled Wamba close to share a brief, tender kiss. Then he pushed away, just far enough to glower at him as he said sternly, “Not until you’ve had your supper.”

“Of course,” Wamba laughed. “How could I forget? I have not yet been reprimanded for my appalling negligence in not looking after myself.”

“If you already know what I’m going to say, you have no excuse for not taking steps to avoid it,” Oscar sniffed.

Wamba laughed at this haughty pronouncement, and followed amiably along as Oscar set out to ease his own worries by thoroughly coddling him in every way he knew how. Oscar fetched food for both of them, then herded Wamba into a bath he insisted Oscar share. Oscar reflected, as Wamba shook apart beneath his hands, that eternal damnation was surely a fair price to pay for this. When they finally fell into bed, rosy skinned and amorous, it all felt so wonderfully normal that Oscar almost managed to forget the specter of the archbishop that hung over them.

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A historical note: Simon Langton was not actually appointed to the See of York until 1215, and so had no overlap with Hubert Walter’s time as Archbishop of Canterbury, which ended in 1205 (the current year in the story). I have other reasons for accelerating his promotion, so for the purpose of this story that's what we're going with.


	56. Chapter 56

Wamba slept deeply throughout the night, the weariness of the road and their ardent reunion combined to send him into contented slumber. Oscar could not quite share in that peace, his misgivings gnawing away at the joy of finally having his lover in his arms once more. Instead, he curled as close to Wamba as he could, freshly conscious of what a fragile happiness it was they enjoyed, and how easily it could be sundered.

When they rose at dawn to go and face whatever fate awaited them, Wamba seemed unconcerned. He washed and dressed as though it were any other day, with no hint of nerves in his voice or expression.

“Aren’t you worried at all?” Oscar finally asked, as they made their way through the castle.

“What good does it to do to worry?” Wamba shrugged. “Until we know what questions he might have, there is little point dwelling on every dreadful possibility. You’re clearly doing enough fretting for both of us.”

“The king is right. You really don’t have one whit of concern for own safety, do you?”

“I’ve survived this long."

“Through no fault of your own,” Oscar rejoined snappishly. “For my sake, at least, you could try to keep from making enemies at every turn. All it takes is one unusually determined one to do you in.” He glared at Wamba as he turned the corner toward the king’s private study, only to be thrown back when he barreled headlong into someone coming the opposite way. He staggered and rocked on his heel, fending off the newcomer with a hand. The broad liveried chest before him was unmoved, and very familiar.

“Farren,” Oscar grumbled, embarrassed to be overheard berating Wamba like a fishwife. He squinted up at the man, bracing himself for disapproval, but was startled to discover a much younger face than he expected looking placidly back at him. “You’re not Farren.”

“No, he’s not, but you’re not far off the mark,” Wamba said, coming up beside Oscar. He smiled at the stranger. “This is his son. Good morning, Thomas.”

“Good morning.” Thomas did not smile. He had clearly inherited his father’s towering height, though he had not yet achieved Farren’s massive bulk. His jaw was equally square, his face unlined and serious. A good portion of it was swathed in a fraying linen bandage and one eye entirely covered. It was wound awkwardly through his chestnut brown hair, short tufts sprouting from the confines. The single eye that regarded Oscar was a peaceful green, reminiscent of the deep forest.

“His son?” Oscar echoed. “I didn’t think his sons were old enough to be wearing chainmail yet.”

“Thomas is the eldest by a stretch,” Wamba explained. “His brothers were born after Farren returned from the Holy Land.”

Thomas simply nodded, content to let Wamba speak in his stead. Oscar stared, until the tall man raised his one visible brow, and Oscar remembered himself. He put a smile on his face. “Well met, then, Thomas. I’m Oscar.”

“Oscar,” Thomas said, in a rumble that rivaled his father’s. “I’ve heard about you.”

“I don’t think that’s very fair, as this is the first I’ve ever heard of you,” Oscar said. “Where has he been hiding you?”

“In the north,” Thomas said. He turned to Wamba. “His majesty is expecting you in the bailey.”

“Then we mustn’t keep him waiting.” Wamba turned back the way they had come, and Oscar followed, though he could not help studying Thomas as they walked.

“So you came back with them from York?”

“Yes.”

“Thomas has been defending the northern border these past few years,” Wamba said. “How many was it?”

“Four.”

“So what happened?” Oscar asked. “Did you get tired of the cold?”

“It was a good post, until a Scot got the better of me.” Thomas pointed at the bandage. “No use while it’s like this.”

Oscar winced in sympathy. “Did you lose the eye?”

“Might,” Thomas said. “Might not. The physician can’t say.”

“For now, at least, he’ll be joining the garrison here,” Wamba said. “And possibly the tribunal.”

“Farren agreed to that?” Oscar asked, surprised. To his knowledge, Farren had never once sent a substitute to guard Wamba in the tribunal, doubly protective after Reginald had been able to attack Wamba in that very place.

“He has many other responsibilities, and unburdening himself of one that demands so much of his time would be of no small help. We have discussed it more than once, but he has always been resistant until now. Perhaps it is to his son that he will finally be able to entrust that duty."

“I’ll believe it when I see it with my own eyes.” Oscar pushed the heavy tower door open with a shove, stepping out beneath the flawless blue sky that bore no trace of the storm that had come before. A commotion near the gates quickly drew his attention. King Richard stood there, at the center of a party of guards and servants. His crown was on his brow and a cloak of embroidered red wool draped over his shoulders.

“There you are,” he called as they approached. “You were so delayed that I thought Thomas must have lost his way.”

“Apologies for keeping you waiting, your majesty,” Wamba said. “We were nearly to your study when he found us.”

“No matter,” the king waved off the apology. “I have decided there was wisdom in your words and no reason to wait. We will go to meet the archbishop in his domain. I have sent a messenger in advance to inform him of our imminent arrival.”

“Of course, sire,” Wamba said. “And how many of these fine men will be accompanying us?” He waved toward the score or so liveried men forming themselves into ranks before the gate under Farren’s direction, as Thomas quickly added himself to their number.

“All of them.”

“Might I inquire then, sire,” Wamba said pleasantly, “whether this is a friendly visit or a foray into enemy territory?”

The king snorted, taking the reins of his black charger from one of his squires. “Your point it well taken, but I will not have him believing he can expect my placid compliance in every demand. It was my backing that earned him his post, and he should remember it.”

“I agree, sire, that you owe him no undue deference,” Wamba said.

The king’s eyes narrowed. “Finish what you mean to say.”

“Then if I may be so bold,” Wamba said quietly, “his holiness summoned me alone, and will no doubt be put on guard by your mere presence. If we appear to approach him as a hostile foe, we risk turning a simple conversation into a more serious confrontation.”

King Richard studied him for a moment. Then his lip quirked in an amused smirk and he nodded. “How yours is the coolest head in all of this continues to amaze me. One would think you had no stake at all in the outcome from how sensibly you speak.”

“It is precisely because I have a stake that I would counsel a more prudent course.” Wamba said. “I have been instructed most emphatically that I am to exert every effort to court fewer enemies in future.”

“Is that so?” The king chuckled, with a glance at Oscar. “Very well. I will contribute to this effort, but I will not go about an official visit without any retinue whatsoever.”

“Of course, sire,” Wamba said. “A personal guard is only appropriate for the king.”

They agreed on an escort of a mere half dozen, and Farren gave the order for the rest to disband. Oscar noted that Thomas was among those selected, despite his injury, and wondered if it was his particular skill or rather some fatherly emotion that drove the choice. The soldiers went on foot, while Wamba was furnished with a mount. Oscar looked around, but found no horse readied for him, so he settled beside Wamba’s knee.

“You don’t have to come along, Oscar,” Wamba told him, looking down with a sympathetic smile from atop his horse.

Oscar snorted. “It will take more than a long walk to scare me off.”

Wamba’s smile widened, and remained that way as they set out. It was indeed a long walk to the abbey, but it turned out to be an enjoyable one nonetheless. They traveled along the bank of the river, which was at its least vile, running fast and clean with an infusion of fresh spring rain and sparkling beneath the bright sunlight. The breeze that wafted past was light and to Oscar it seemed far too pleasant a day to end in any misfortune. It calmed his nerves, even as the massive spires of the church came into view.

They did not enter through the great main doors, but circled around to a smaller entryway that was opened for them by a monk in a brown cassock. Four of the soldiers remained behind, while Farren and Thomas accompanied the king into the abbey. Oscar remained close beside Wamba, even as he could not resist looking around at the carvings that dotted the stone passageway. The living quarters of the chapter house were humble compared to the ornate chapel where the king had been married, but the room to which they were shown was clearly an audience chamber, with arched ceilings, high windows, and a single tall-backed wooden chair set squarely in the center. In this last, the archbishop waited.

The old man was dressed in a fine robe and stole, his miter on his head, but despite the finery he looked decidedly frail. He was much diminished from when Oscar had seen him last, small and ill inside his vestments, a skeletal air to his drawn face. A young monk stood at his elbow with a cup in one hand and a bowl in the other.

King Richard approached the archbishop’s throne without hesitation, standing tall and firm before it. “You look unwell, Walter,” he said by way of greeting.

“Most kind of you to note it, your majesty,” the archbishop said sourly. “I was surprised to learn that you had chosen to join this interview.”

“I was not aware an invitation was required for a sovereign to call upon his official,” the king replied, a none-too-subtle reminder of his superior rank.

“Of course,” the archbishop acceded. “It is always an honor to welcome you to the abbey, sire, though the matter at hand is hardly of sufficient import to merit your time. I merely wished to have a conversation with your man there. Some pressing questions have been raised regarding his recent actions.”

“So I was informed, but you will understand my concern when your summons revealed nothing of the matter you wished to discuss. If you have some quarrel with my magistrate, I would know it.“

The archbishop’s frail form heaved in a cough, and then another, an ominous rattle in his chest. The monk at his side immediately offered the bowl. The archbishop leaned over to eject a blood-flecked glob of sputum, which landed with a wet spatter. Oscar felt his lip curl in disgust, though the king and Wamba watched all of this without any change of expression. When the archbishop sat back, the monk brought the cup to his lips instead an helped him to drink. The old man shooed him off soon enough, shifting himself to sit taller in his seat with his bony hands braced on the arms of his chair.

“As you can see, I have neither time nor patience to be delicate. I have had word from my brother at York that your man has taken it upon himself to extend his authority into the realm of holy justice. Why was I not informed of this sooner?”

Wamba stepped forward at that, drawing even with the king. “With respect, your holiness, the former Abbot of Whalley colluded with the local magistrate to gravely mistreat the people of his diocese. The matter came to my attention precisely because of its secular nature.”

The abbot’s rheumy gaze settled on Wamba, taking his measure. “You are a magistrate of the public tribunal, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Charged with matters that concern the common people of London.”

“Yes.”

“Blackburn is rather far afield for a London magistrate.”

“It was on my order that he reviewed the records of my provincial magistrates and uncovered this malfeasance,” the king said. “That one of those perpetrating the abuses was of the church was discovered only afterward.”

“And yet you chose to take the matter to the See of York rather than consult me,” the archbishop said, eyes narrowed at Wamba once more.

It was the king who replied. “Blackburn is within the bishop’s purview, and I had other business at York. It was mere expedience that I chose to deal with these at the same time.”

“My brother feels differently. He seems to believe that your man bears some ill will toward the church and would see its authority among the people diminished. You are of course aware, sire, that this threatens the provenance of your own authority as well. If you have taken a viper to your breast, it is the duty of God’s faithful to remove that influence without delay.”

A wave of dread washed over Oscar, and he clenched his hands behind his back, but Wamba was unshaken by the implicit threat in the old man’s words. “Nothing of the sort, your holiness,” he said. “It was my hope and intent to spare your office and the church any embarrassment by resolving the matter quickly and directly.”

“You should not toss about such dangerous words so lightly, Walter,” the king said sternly, “particularly on the testament of a disgraced abbot.”

The archbishop glowered. “It is my right and sacred duty to ensure that a man holding such power over the Christian people of this land is not a heretic.”

“If my word does not suffice, there are any number who will testify to his admirable disposition of his duties.”

“Thank you, sire,” Wamba murmured with a shallow bow.

The archbishop coughed again, a racking heave that doubled him over in obvious pain. The monk beside him rushed to position the bowl to catch the thick gobs of rot that fell from between his lips, but a few bloody drops spattered on his white robe and stained his fine stole. When he was able, the archbishop reached for the cup and took a mouthful. He spit that into the bowl as well, and waved the monk away.

“Have you consulted a physician?” the king asked.

“I have no need of one of those beasts bleeding and poisoning me,” the archbishop rasped. “I am an old man, and at peace with my God. He may take me when He deems fit.”

“They may be able to ease your pain, if nothing else,” the king said.

The archbishop scoffed. “So I can spend the rest of my days in a stupor, unable to recall even my own name? I will use the time He has given me to fulfill my duty to Him and to His church. I am satisfied that there was no malicious intent in your man’s investigation, but I will ask that you tell me of more this matter, so that I may determine whether my brother’s actions were correct.”

It fell to Wamba to describe the meetings that had taken place over the winter, while the king offered only the occasional interjection. The version of events presented was straightforward, and the archbishop did not question the veracity of the tale. Oscar slowly began to calm, as it became clear the old man had heard nothing of the other rumors about Wamba that had flown in York.

It was less than an hour after their arrival that they made their way back out into the sunny yard where the rest of their retinue waited. “Well,” King Richard said as they emerged, “that went more smoothly than expected.”

“Thanks to your intervention, sire,” Wamba said. “Without your presence, it may have been a much less friendly interrogation.”

“Good that you recognize it,” the king said sternly, “though it is your luck at work again that the Bishop of York displayed enough prudence not to spread every bit of gossip that came his way.”

“Indeed, sire,” Wamba agreed.

“While this has been a pleasant diversion, I have much business left unattended.” He swung himself into his saddle as he spoke, his cloak settling over the beast’s rump. “Let us return to the Tower.”

One of the guards offered Wamba his reins, but he hesitated to accept them. “With your permission, sire, I think Oscar and I will make our own way back.”

“On foot?” the king asked.

Wamba looked at Oscar, who smiled and nodded, pleased at the idea of sharing a walk.

“Yes, sire,” Wamba said, his eyes not leaving Oscar.

“As you will,” the king agreed, “but you will not go unguarded.”

“Thomas,” Farren said. He nodded in Wamba’s direction, and the tall young man detached himself from the guard. Wamba smiled, pleased with the choice, and Thomas returned it with the barest hint of an upward tilt to his lips. They waited until the king departed with his remaining guard, before Wamba led the way to the grand square at the front of the church.

“You didn’t have to walk for my sake,” Oscar said, falling into step beside him as Thomas trailed a few paces behind.

“I wanted to, actually,” Wamba said. “I’ve been on horseback so many days running I’m developing saddle sores. Besides, I missed the city. It’s a lovely day, and I don’t mind the chance to enjoy it this way.” He took a deep breath, face tilted up to the blue sky, and Oscar watched him, painfully thankful that none of his worst imaginings had come to pass.

“Alms, sir,” a croak interrupted them. “Pity for a sick man.”

It was a beggar, crouched in the dark alcove beside the great doors of the church. His face was shadowed in a moldering leather hood, one gaunt hand extended toward them with palm raised.

“Of course.” Wamba reached at once for the purse at his belt and extracted a silver shilling. He dropped into the man’s hand.

As though by magic, more shadows began to break away from the stone walls, taking form as a pitiful group of people descending on them with hands extended. Thomas stepped close with a look of faint alarm in his one visible eye, but Wamba reassured him with a murmured word. He scooped a handful of coins from his purse and dropped them into Oscar’s hand. “Here.”

Many pairs of hungry eyes turned on Oscar, and he quickly laid a coin in the dirty palm of the closest woman. Her lined face cracked into a toothless smile. Her fist closed tight and she hugged it to her chest as she wandered away. Another beggar quickly replaced her. Oscar continued distributing the coins, and Wamba did the same, until between them they had handed out nearly twenty shillings and Wamba’s purse was empty.

“Most people give them pennies, you know,” Oscar remarked as they watched the beggars wander peaceably away.

“Should I have given them nothing because I only had silver?”

“No,” Oscar said, “but they’re going to remember your face.”

“I should come here more often,” Wamba said. “It’s as good a use as any for all that coin.” Wamba had hardly touched the wealth that Ivanhoe had pressed upon him, not given to spontaneous desires for material things. Oscar suspected that most days he forgot that he even possessed it.

“You can’t feed every hungry mouth in England,” Oscar said.

“You’re right,” Wamba agreed. “They would be better served if they were offered some way to do for themselves, but none of them chose this life. If I can ease that suffering even a little, is that not a worthwhile thing?”

“Of course,” Oscar said, feeling a heel but determined to make the point. “Of course it is. Just remember to take care of yourself as well. Have you thought about what you might do with it?”

“Actually, I did have one idea.” Wamba’s mouth quirked, and his eye lit as he looked at Oscar.

“Really?” Oscar asked, unable to guess what that look might mean.

“Do you still want to go to the sea?”

Oscar gaped, stunned, as a playful conversation half-forgotten came roaring back to the fore of his memory. “What? Really?”

Wamba nodded, visibly pleased with Oscar’s reaction. “The king offered to grant me a few days before I resume my duties. It’s not far. We can be back by Sunday.”

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” Oscar laughed, as delight began to bubble in his chest.

“Of course I did,” Wamba said, his smile turned soft. “So shall we go?”

“Yes!”


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

“Are you ready to say goodbye?”

“What?” Oscar frowned and lifted his head to peer over Wamba’s shoulder, wondering if he was dreaming still, but Wamba’s eyes were open.

“To Caspar,” he said. Oscar followed his gaze to the windowsill, and the wicker cage he had placed there the night before. The feeble light of early morning cast the low-beamed room in shades of gray and faintest blue, but he could make out the shape of the little lark on the perch within, feathers ruffled in the gentle breeze blowing across the scrubby field beyond the window.

Oscar let his head fall back to rest on the pillow he shared with Wamba, considering as one hand absently stroked his lover’s chest. The idea to bring Caspar along on their impromptu holiday had been Wamba’s, but watching the bird grow more animated the closer they drew to the coast, Oscar could not deny the wisdom in releasing him here. “He has been a worthy companion, in your absence,” he said at last, “but he deserves his freedom.”

After two days bumping about on horseback, and a night spent in the fancifully named hamlet of Maidstone, they had arrived in the village of Dover shortly after dusk. It was too late to venture down to the sea by the time they were settled, but he could already feel the force of its presence. The air was heavier here, and sharp with a hint of brine that nipped at Oscar’s nose and stung the back of his throat.

“What do you think the sea will be like?” He licked curiously at the skin of Wamba’s shoulder, to see if the novel clime had changed him as well, but he tasted the same as he always had.

“I have heard it compared to a field of wheat,” Wamba said, while Oscar began to suck a kiss onto his neck, “stretched as far as the eye can see, only black and bottomless and home to monsters the like of which must surely have emerged from the depths of hell itself.”

Oscar tried to picture what he described, but the image seemed absurd. “Is that how Ivanhoe described it?”

Wamba laughed, and tilted his chin up to give Oscar more room. “Wilfred is rarely given to such poetic expressions, excepting in his declarations to his lady. He said merely that it is large, and cold, and that it is wiser to avoid crossing it unless for good reason.”

“Surely it can’t be as dreadful as all that,” Oscar said, sliding his hand slowly down Wamba’s belly.

“You’ll be able to see for yourself soon enough.” Wamba’s voice hitched on the last word, and Oscar grinned.

“Yes,” he said, putting his mouth to Wamba’s skin again, “but not just yet.”

By the time they were of a mind to rise, their breakfast had been delivered to their door and bright sunlight was streaming through the window. Caspar was wide awake, so Oscar bent down to greet him as he finished tying off his belt. The little lark burbled excitedly and hopped across his perch in a shuffling dance, his horns raised and eyes bright.

“I think he’s keen to see what all the fuss is about,” he remarked to Wamba.

“Then he is in luck,” Wamba said. “For we are but minutes from that discovery.”

He lifted his coat from where it had been discarded over the back of a chair, and Oscar went to help him slide it up his arms and settle it on his shoulders, brushing the leather smooth on habit, letting his touch linger just a moment on narrow hips. Then he hooked a finger through the ring atop Caspar’s cage and swept it up to carry it with them downstairs.

The inn’s common room was small and cozy, warmed by a healthy fire at one end. At the table nearby, Thomas kept company with an old man Oscar did not recognize. He wore a grizzled beard on his weathered face, and chewed on the end of a pitted wooden pipe as he talked. Thomas nodded to them when they approached.

“You haven’t been waiting long, have you?” Oscar asked as he set Caspar’s cage down on the table.

“No,” Thomas said. His eye was uncovered now, deemed fit for use just in time for their journey, though the white was stained an alarming shade of red still. An angry cut sliced through his brow and across the corner of the lid. It was a gruesome wound, but one that Oscar suspected would leave a scar that only enhanced his already enviable brand of sober masculinity.

His companion whistled through stained teeth and poked the end of his pipe through the bars of the cage to prod at Caspar’s downy chest. “Where did you find this little lad? I thought his kind had all gone for the year.”

Wamba’s tilted his head, curious. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no mistaking that face,” the old man drawled. “Come around every winter, they do, pecking about along the cliffs. Always move on by springtime, though. I haven’t seen one in a month or more. That’s a rare bit of luck to trap one so late.”

“We didn’t catch him, actually,” Wamba said. “He was purchased from a bird seller in London. We brought him to release him, but I had no idea his kind were to be found here.”

“Funny bit of luck then,” the man wheezed out a laugh.

“Indeed,” Wamba said. He looked at Oscar. “Though it sounds like we have missed the timing. I would hate to leave him out there alone if his brethren have moved on. Perhaps we should wait until they return next winter.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about that,” the old man said, nodding sagely. “His own sense will take him where he needs to be. Beasts have a way of knowing.”

“That they do,” Wamba said with a smile.

“Are you going out?” Thomas asked.

“I thought we might,” Wamba said, “seeing as we have come so far already.”

“I scouted the trail this morning,” Thomas said. “It’s a walk. I’ll show you.”

“That’s very kind of you, Thomas, but I’m sure we can find the way. You enjoy your conversation, and we’ll be back in an hour or two.”

Thomas’s brow wrinkled in a faint frown. “You should not go alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Wamba said reasonably. “Oscar is with me, and I’m sure you confirmed for yourself this morning that the way is clear of danger.”

Thomas nodded slowly, though his frown did not ease.

“Then there is no need to worry,” Wamba gave him a reassuring smile, “and I promise not to tell your father about this minor truancy if you will do me the same favor.”

“Alright,” Thomas said, the faintest hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Go down past the castle. You’ll see the cliffs.”

“Excellent.”

So they set out alone, making their way along the track that led down into the town proper beneath a blue sky studded with fleecy clouds. The castle was swarming with activity, buckets and pulleys and a small army of workers slowly building up the walls to an impressive height. Oscar watched them curiously as they walked past, until a sound that had been humming at the edge of his awareness forced itself to the fore.

Gradually, as they passed beyond the castle walls and into a meadow of knee-high scrub, the distant rustle swelled to a roar. A heavy, pounding pressure assaulted Oscar’s ears, as he followed Wamba up the slope of the hill with Caspar’s cage knocking against his leg. Then they crested the rise. As they did, the wind struck sudden, with a force like a hammer, and Oscar gasped to find himself standing at the edge of the world.

The earth was cut away just beyond his feet, a terrifying drop to the vast, endless expanse of the sea. Never could his imagination have conjured such a sight. The water stretched as far as his eyes could see, a living thing that heaved in restless rhythm, throwing itself against the rocks and sending up gouts of frothy spray. Sunlight fractured against its glassy surface, unable to penetrate the sinking darkness, and it was easy to believe that monsters dwelt in those depths.

Oscar stared, trying to fathom the enormity of it. Beside him, Wamba stood silent, the edges of his leather coat whipping in the wind.

“How far does it go on?” Oscar breathed at last.

“France is there beyond,” Wamba replied, quiet and awed. “Somewhere.”

Another wave crashed far below, sending up a roar as it retreated, and Caspar began to chirp and whistle. His excitement finally shook Oscar from his stupor, enough to lift the cage and peer inside. “No wonder you were so restless in London,” Oscar told the bird, “if this is what you knew before.”

“A great injustice, indeed,” Wamba agreed, “but one that we luckily have the power to right.”

Oscar looked over at him. “Is it time?”

“I leave that choice to you,” Wamba told him, a soft smile curving his lips and his hair flying wild about his face. “Are you ready?”

In response, Oscar set the cage down on the sandy rock at their feet. He hesitated only a moment before he flipped open the hook holding the small prison closed. Caspar was well accustomed to this ritual now, and hopped at once to the edge of the door. He opened his beak and whistled again, a sweeping trill calling out across the vast emptiness, then fluttered down to land at the edge of the cliff. He turned his head about, casting one glance over Oscar, crouched on the ground. Then he leapt.

Oscar stumbled to his feet to watch Caspar plummet, before his little wings began to flap madly and he rose again, darting up in a joyous arc over the edge of the cliff, a dark speck hurtling through the sky. He soared, then dropped, disappearing into the scrubby bushes and out of sight. Oscar stretched his neck to try to catch another glimpse of him, overcome by an emotion he could not quite name. Then a cool hand slid into his, clasping his fingers, and he finally looked away.

Wamba’s smile was sympathetic. “Having doubts?”

“No,” Oscar shook his head. “It was time.”

“Don’t fret. He’ll be alright,” Wamba said. To Oscar’s surprise, he stretched up and placed a quick kiss on Oscar’s mouth. “Shall we have a closer look at the sea?”

“Down there?” Oscar pointed over the side of the cliff.

“Not precisely,” Wamba laughed. “There’s a path further along, I believe, if you don’t mind a bit of a climb back.”

Oscar was quick to agree. They left the cage behind and trekked along the edge of the cliff. Oscar could not quite help looking about to see if he could catch a glimpse of Caspar, to no avail. Further down, they encountered a treacherously narrow path that wound down to a sandy strip of land just at the edge of the water. From this vantage, the waves were enormous, surging up the black rock of the beach and sweeping it clean with each retreat. They approached cautiously, mindful of the reach of the water, though they could not escape the spray that showered them, propelled by the rising wind. The smell of brine was overpowering, a metallic decay that was strangely enticing. Oscar took a deep breath.

“How can such a thing even be?” he wondered, watching shifting shapes in the mounting waves that might be grotesque heads or arms or any number of other monstrosity.

“This much be God’s way of reminding us how very small we are, surely,” Wamba said. He took a quick step back to avoiding wetting his boots as a particularly eager wave approached.

“Would you like to cross it one day? See what’s on the other shore?”

“I don’t know,” Wamba said. “I do not speak French, or any other foreign tongue for that matter.”

“You could learn,” Oscar said. “Oh!” Beside his foot, something that he had taken for a stone sprouted an abnormally large number of legs and began to scuttle away from him sideways. He watched it go, perplexed.

“I’ve never had a talent for it,” Wamba said, his gaze following the odd creature as well. “What a curious beast.”

“Do you suppose it can be eaten?”

That startled a laugh from Wamba. “Trust you to think with your stomach first.”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable question!” Oscar protested, though he could not help laughing as well.

“We should ask in the village,” Wamba suggested. “You might be in luck.”

A deep rumble rolled over them, loud even over the ceaseless roar of the waves. At the same moment, a cloud passed across the sun, plunging them into shadow. Oscar looked up at the cliff face behind them. Dark clouds were building, spreading like a stain over the edge of the land and across the sky above the sea.

“That looks forbidding.”

“Where did it come from?” Wamba said. “There was no sign of rain when we set out.”

“We can wonder about that later,” Oscar said, and offered Wamba his hand. “I don’t want to find out how angry the sea can get with a storm to goad it.”

“You’re right,” Wamba nodded as he took Oscar’s hand. “We might have time to make it back to the village if we hurry.”

Oscar was doubtful, but he led the way back up the cliff, bounding up the path as quickly as he could without losing his footing. He skidded once, as his boot landed on a loose patch of gravel, but Wamba steadied him with a hand on his back and pushed him forward once more. Even at that pace, however, they had only just reached the top of the cliff before the first frigid drops began to pelt down around them.

They had only that instant of warning. Then a crack of lightning rent the sky, and the clouds tore open all at once, setting loose a downpour. Oscar was soaked in an instant. Stinging drops lashed the exposed skin of his face as a sudden gust nearly knocked him off his feet. He tightened his grip on Wamba’s hand and blinked the water from his eyes, looking around for anything that might provide them shelter.

“There!” Wamba said, barely intelligible over the cacophony of rain and growling thunder . He was pointing to a faint a shadow, just visible through the driving curtains of rain. Try as he might, Oscar could not make sense of it, but he trusted Wamba’s senses and set out toward the vague shape, fighting to keep his feet beneath him.

The shape that finally took form before them was a shepherd’s hovel, four walls of rough stone with a proper roof but no door. Oscar ducked inside and pulled Wamba after him, where he released his hand at last to shake some of the water from his face and take stock. The space was small but dry, the thatch tight enough to withstand the deluge that still pounded outside. It smelled of moss and wet earth. There was a small hearth with a meager supply of wood, and a short wooden bench. Beneath it Oscar spied a ball of grey wool that might be a blanket.

He looked at Wamba, soaked and dripping in the dim light from the door, and began to laugh. Wamba’s mouth quirked, witnessing Oscar’s mirth, and then he was laughing as well. Oscar’s boot squelched as he shifted, his trousers clinging uncomfortably to his legs.

He shook out his hands. “How long do you think this will last?”

A sharp crack answered, followed quickly by a long rumble.

“There’s no way to tell,” Wamba said, with a shiver. “We would do better to be out of these wet clothes, if we can. I’ll light the fire. Why don’t you see what our friendly shepherds have stored here that might be of use?”

Oscar did as he asked, poking about in the growing light as the fire flickered to life, but there was precious little to be found. He pulled the pile of wool out from beneath the bench, sending a tiny brown field mouse skittering as its nest was disturbed. It darted into the corner and cowered there. Oscar let it be, unwilling to chase the little creature out into the rain. He shook out the cloth and discovered it to be a blanket, generously large and spotted with only a few small holes.

“That will do nicely,” Wamba said. He had wrestled his coat off and draped it over the bench, and bent to wrench off his boots and set them close to the fire. Oscar followed his example, peeling off his sodden clothing and hanging it as neatly as he could to dry.

He spread the blanket on the hearth and watched while Wamba pulled off his tunic, until he was down to his rain-slick skin. Oscar tugged him down to sit, before he pulled the wool up to cover them both.

Wamba huddled against him, clammy skin pressed to Oscar’s side beneath the arm that Oscar wrapped around him. He shivered as the heat from the fire slowly built and their bodies warmed.

“Are you in pain?” Oscar asked, worried that the sudden cold might have caused Wamba’s muscles to cramp.

“No,” Wamba said, pressing closer to Oscar, “just cold.”

“It will be warm in a moment.” Oscar scrubbed his hand along Wamba’s arm, trying to smooth the gooseflesh. “I’m glad you’re so hale. I worried you wouldn’t be able to look after yourself properly in York.”

“I paid a visit to Rachel’s niece. You know what potions I took with me were only enough to last a month. She was able to give me what I needed.”

“Is she the one you sent Morris to?” Oscar asked.

“Yes,” Wamba nodded. “I saw him, actually.”

Oscar blinked at him. “Really?”

“Not by coincidence. Miriam has taken him as her apprentice, with Lord Percival’s blessing.”

“What? Shy little Morris?”

“He is standing straighter now. He was even able to look me in the eye. It is a remarkable transformation in such a short time.”

Oscar laughed, and pressed a kiss to Wamba’s hair as he tightened his arm in an affectionate hug. “Yet another lost boy set on a new path thanks to you.”

Wamba shook his head, turning a soft smile on Oscar. “You made your path for yourself, Oscar. I merely gave you the chance.”

“You say that as if it is nothing,” Oscar said, soft and serious. “It is everything.”

Wamba’s mouth opened, as though to protest, but he was interrupted by another wracking shiver. Oscar hitched the blanket more tightly closed.

“You’re still cold. I’ll build the fire higher.”

“That’s all the wood there was,” Wamba said, “but I have another idea.”

Oscar was forced to release his grip as Wamba unfolded his legs and shifted up and into Oscar’s lap. Oscar crossed his legs to make a comfortable seat for him, and lifted the blanket to wrap it close around him, while Wamba’s arms settled about his shoulders. They were pressed together from chest to groin that way, close in a way that made Oscar forget the cold entirely.

“Oh, yes, that’s much better,” he said, leaning in to nip at the exposed throat before him. “You’re very clever. What do you suppose we can do now that we’re like this?”

Wamba laughed, and tilted Oscar’s face up for a proper kiss. He smelled like sweet rain and ash from the fire. His wet hair brushed over Oscar’s cheeks, a touch colder than the long fingers that slid along his jaw. His skin was damp, inside their humid cocoon, chafing against Oscar in a way that made his senses light, and his cock rise eagerly to attention.

It prodded Wamba’s thigh, and he broke away from Oscar to laugh, “Are you not yet sated?”

Oscar hummed and pulled him closer, rubbing pointedly against him. “I don’t think I’ll ever have my fill of you.”

Wamba’s hands brushed through his hair, silent though there was something unguarded and hopeful in his dark gaze that made Oscar’s heart ache. He leaned up to claim another kiss, stroking into Wamba’s mouth in gentle rhythm, showing him how much he was wanted, until Wamba shifted forward, just slightly, just enough so that the head of Oscar’s cock was pressed against place where his body opened.

Oscar released his mouth to pant, “I don’t have anything.”

“It’s alright,” Wamba assured him breathlessly.

“No,” Oscar grasped his hips to still them and shook his head. “I won’t hurt you.”

Wamba studied him, his eyes jumping between Oscar’s. Then he smiled and pressed a kiss to Oscar’s lips. “Give me your hand.”

Confused, Oscar did as he asked, lifting his hand between them. Wamba took it in both of his, and slid two of Oscar’s fingers into his mouth. His eyes met Oscar’s as he sucked on the captive digits, wetting them thoroughly. Oscar cursed as a renewed rush of arousal flooded his loins.

Wamba smiled around Oscar’s fingers, licking at the pad of his forefinger before he pulled away. “There.”

“Are you sure?” Oscar croaked, still unconvinced. Wamba nodded, and guided Oscar’s hand between them, where he slowly worked the tips of his slick fingers inside his lover’s body.

Wamba sighed at the sensation, his eyes falling closed and head dropping. Oscar worked him carefully, stretching him, until Wamba opened hazy eyes and whispered, “Now.”

Still assailed by doubts, Oscar aligned them, and pressed, just gently at first. It was Wamba who bore down against him, steady and sure until his body finally surrendered and Oscar slipped inside. They both gasped. The friction was like nothing Oscar had felt before, no smooth glide but an itch that sent sparks through his belly, begging for motion, but Oscar kept still.

Wamba’s face was strained, his hands tight on Oscar’s shoulders. He took a deep breath and slid down another inch, and then another. It was painful to watch, but so beautiful, the way Wamba fought to have Oscar as he wished, the way they came together. Nothing about their union was easy, denied in daylight, decried and mocked and misunderstood by so many. But there was no doubt, for Oscar, that it was worth every damnation, and a question that had been resting quiet in his heart flew up and out of him without warning.

“Would you marry me?”

Wamba’s eyes flew open and he startled, his body tightening around Oscar. He blinked at Oscar, and Oscar let the question hang between them, waiting with a pounding heart to hear what Wamba’s reply would be.

Then Wamba’s lips curved in a slow, warm smile. He slid his hands around the nape of Oscar’s neck and bent to kiss him, and murmur against his lips. “I thought I just had.”

“What?” Oscar frowned. He stared at Wamba, at the sweet curve of his mouth and his expectant gaze, as realization began to dawn. “You mean… Caspar?”

Wamba’s smile stretched into a wide grin. “That is what is done, is it not?”

Oscar barked a laugh, unable to contain the bubbling joy as he understood. A bird for betrothal, to release at the wedding. “You asked me to marry you and I didn’t even realize it.”

“I should have been more clear,” Wamba said. “I know subtlety is not your strongest suit.” His smile was teasing, but his hips shifted restlessly where he was impaled.

“You’re right,” Oscar said, taking a firm grip on Wamba’s waist. There would be time for talking later. “I prefer to be direct.”

He snapped his hips up in a quick thrust, burying himself to the root in his lover’s body. Wamba gasped, sharp and startled, and wrapped his arms around Oscar. Oscar kissed his throat and whispered soft reassurance as he began to move in a slow, steady rhythm. Each press and retreat felt like it lasted an eternity, the tingling rub of raw skin nearly overwhelming Oscar’s senses.

He concentrated on that, on the sound and sensation of Wamba’s panted breaths in his ear, as he pushed them both closer to completion. Impassioned as they both were, it did not take long. Wamba came first, spilling hot and slick between them, and Oscar followed an instant behind, crushing his lover to him as he did.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the steady rush of rain outside, as they clung to one another in the close, fire lit space. Then Wamba huffed a breath into Oscar’s hair.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not cold anymore.”

Oscar laughed, and shifted him so he could pull free of his body. He did not miss Wamba’s wince as they parted. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Wamba assured him. “Just a bit sore.”

“I don’t think we should do that again,” Oscar said, unable to deny the guilt of causing Wamba pain.

“Perhaps you are right,” Wamba conceded, his lip quirking. “With an appetite like yours to satisfy, I wouldn’t last very long.”

It was the way he said it, the assumption there, that reminded Oscar suddenly of something else that was long overdue between them. “It doesn't always have to be you, you know.”

Wamba’s head tilted, his brows drawing down in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You could take me.”

Wamba’s eyes widened, surprised. Then his face melted into a soft smile. He pushed Oscar’s hair back from his brow and dropped a gentle kiss on the bridge of his nose. “That is very generous of you to offer, but I don’t need that from you, Oscar. I really don’t.”

Oscar had expected this, Wamba’s resistance to the idea of doing anything that might cause him discomfort, but he knew also that the one thing Wamba was most reluctant to do was to deny him. So he put on as earnest an expression as he could and said, “What if I want it?”

Wamba sighed softly, his hands falling to rest on Oscar’s shoulders. "You made it very clear that you had no interest in such things."

“What?” Oscar frowned. “What are you talking about?” He could not remember any instance where they had discussed it, even vaguely.

“After the archivist attempted to seduce you,” Wamba said quietly.

“Oh.” Oscar’s own words came back to him, harsh and dismissive, and he could see how Wamba could have misinterpreted his meaning. Wamba usually understood him so well, he had not thought it needed further elaboration. "Not wanting to let Nicholas make free play of me has nothing to do with you."

Wamba turned his face away. “There’s no need, Oscar. I am content. This is my particular aberrance. I have no wish to impose it on anyone else, least of all you.”

Oscar nosed at his cheek. "But you've thought about it?"

Wamba swallowed, hesitated, and finally confessed, "I have."

Oscar smiled. "So have I."

"But you're not…" Wamba trailed off, frowning again.

"Not what?"

Wamba stroked Oscar’s cheek. "Broken.”

Oscar’s throat tightened, and he turned his head to kiss Wamba’s fingers. "No, I'm not. And neither are you."

“Are you sure, Oscar?”

“Yes,” Oscar said, and he knew from the depths of his heart that it was true.

“Alright. If it is what you want.” Wamba’s smile was frail. “But not here. Not without preparation.”

“When we return, then,” Oscar said.

Wamba nodded, and Oscar could not contain his grin, as he stretched up to claim another kiss, and tipped them over to lie on the hearth, tangled together within the blanket.

The mouse scratched about in the corner. The rain still pounded down outside, but Oscar’s heart shone within him like a sun, bursting with anticipation for their return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex.


	58. Chapter 58

They dozed for a span, drifting between sleeping and waking while the howling storm calmed gradually to a steady shower. It was the sensation of a delicate touch gliding across his features that drew Oscar back to awareness. He opened his eyes to find Wamba studying him, while long fingers traced the curve of his cheek and swept across his lips, exquisitely gentle. His head was pillowed on Oscar’s arm, the blanket slipped to bare his shoulder. His eyes were soft, liquid with the same adoration that flooded Oscar’s breast and birthed an ache that begged a tender cure. 

Oscar huffed a breath, and caught Wamba’s wandering hand to press soft kisses into his palm, then leaned down to bestow the same on his lips. He watched Wamba’s mouth curve, slow and content, and thought that he would like nothing more than to stop time and preserve this moment for eternity, with his lover warm in his arms and the world that would condemn them too far away to matter.

“Did you really mean it?” he asked, lacing Wamba’s fingers in his and settling their hands between them.

“What?” Wamba asked.

“Caspar,” Oscar said. “Did you really mean him as a betrothal gift?”

“If you like,” Wamba said, his voice traveling no further than the narrow space that separated them. “I know that what I offer is no great prize. The church will never recognize any such union. We can never live as free as we might wish. But I will pledge you my troth, for what little it is worth, if it is something you desire.”

“Of course I want it,” Oscar said, clasping his hand tighter around Wamba’s. “Of course, and I will pledge you the same.”

Wamba’s eyes were suspiciously wet, but he smiled. “Then we are agreed.”

“I shall apply to my brother directly regarding my dowry,” Oscar said.

That won him a laugh, while Wamba’s free hand pinched the point of Oscar’s chin. “And will he make assurances for your purity as well?”

“I don’t think he has any illusions about that,” Oscar said, “but you can ask.”

“Perhaps I will at that.”

His smile was an irresistible invitation, so Oscar licked it from his lips, turning to brace himself on both arms and take that mouth in a devouring kiss. Wamba hummed and slid a hand up Oscar’s ribs, sending shivers out over his skin.

Oscar broke away, staring into his eyes as he asked, “If I give you a token, will you wear it?”

“Yes,” Wamba said at once, and pulled Oscar back down to show him what words could not adequately express. Oscar followed eagerly, and twined one of his legs with Wamba’s, rubbing their ankles together beneath the blanket as they tasted one another.

A sudden shadow blocked the light from the door, and Oscar startled back. His head snapped around, even as his body braced for an attack, hunched protectively over his lover. It was Thomas’s calm face that looked back at him, thoroughly sodden and dripping water from his chin. He took in the scene before him, the two of them tangled together in the blanket, then looked to Wamba.

“You’ve been gone nearly the whole day. The storm was sudden. I thought you might have been washed out to sea.”

“It was nearly so, but fortunately we managed to take shelter,” Wamba said evenly, though a faint flush had risen on his cheeks. “My apologies for causing you worry. Thank you for coming to find us.”

“The rain has nearly stopped,” Thomas said. “We’d best get back to the village before dark.”

“Of course,” Wamba agreed easily. “We’ll just see if our clothes have dried and join you directly.”

“Alright,” Thomas said. He disappeared from the doorway.

They stayed as they were for a long moment, letting the shock wane. Then Wamba buried his face in Oscar’s shoulder and gasped a laugh. Oscar fell down on top of him as the strength in his arms gave out, and he laughed too, horrified and relived in equal measure.

“Does he know?” he hissed.

“If he didn’t before, he surely does now.”

“Merciful God,” Oscar cursed.

“Don’t worry,” Wamba assured him. “Thomas can be trusted.”

“If you say so,” Oscar muttered. He heaved himself to his feet, and reached down to offer Wamba a hand to help him up as well. The clothing they had draped over the bench was still damp along the seams, but Oscar was able to fight his trousers up his legs without too much difficulty. He folded the blanket and tucked it back into its place, wondering if the little brown mouse would return to claim it once they were gone. Wamba left a coin as payment for the wood they had burned, and they were ready to leave.

Wamba carried his coat under his arm as they ducked out the low door and into the meadow, where the clouds had broken at last and the lengthening rays of the evening sun cast the scrubby fronds in shades of gold and bronze. Thomas waited for them a few paces beyond the door. He made no comment, merely turned to lead the way back toward the castle that was clearly visible now on the horizon. The path was wet and treacherous with mud, so Oscar offered Wamba his hand and he took it, with a small, private smile that warmed Oscar all the way down his damp toes.

Oscar wheedled a bath out of the innkeeper that night, before they settled beside the roaring fire for a hearty meal of pea soup and eel pie. It was there that they learned that Thomas’s new acquaintance Gerard was a fisherman, and perfectly willing to answer their questions about the creatures that lived in the mysterious depths of the sea. He even agreed to take Oscar out with him on his small boat, a prospect that so delighted him he could hardly sleep, to Wamba’s patient amusement.

He set out in Gerard’s flat-bottomed skiff the following morning, while Wamba and Thomas watched from the shore. The wind was calm, but even the moderate swell of the waves in those conditions was more than Oscar had ever experienced on the river. The tumbling chop set his stomach rolling in queasy sympathy, and for the first hour he hovered on the verge of losing his breakfast. The feeling began to fade, as he grew accustomed to the constant motion and Gerard put him to work casting down a net weighted with round stones. It sank, and kept sinking, as Oscar measured out a truly astonishing length of rope. It made him keenly aware of how very foolhardy it was to go bobbing about as they were, nothing between them and a daunting drop into the abyss but a few slats of seasoned wood and the fickle temper of the wind.

His maudlin thoughts quickly gave way to elation once more, once they dropped the final net and circled back to the first, and pulled it up to discover not one but two of the strange creatures he had spotted on the shore, which Gerard informed him were crabs. The next net held a healthy mackerel, and the third a another, and by the time the finished they had a respectable haul flopping and writhing about in the stern of the little boat. Oscar whooped and waved as they let the tide carry them into shore, scrambling through the surf, tugging the boat after him, to show Wamba what they had caught.

That night, they feasted on baked crab doused in vinegar and mackerel broiled in butter, and went to bed warm and happy. It was a pleasant way to spend their last day, before they set out early the next morning for London. As they rode, Oscar reminisced about what they had seen, and decided he might like to bring his nephews when they were older, to show them the world beyond the cramped confines of the city.

Two days later, London was finally before them, and Oscar prepared to return to their normal life, to see Wamba off to the tribunal, to spend his days fetching and carrying and bickering with Nicholas, to waste an hour here and there with Emma or Dunstan. There were new delights to look forward to as well, telling his brother of the promises he had made, finding a token for Wamba and perhaps, one day soon, giving himself to his lover and learning that pleasure as well.

That prospect was foremost in his mind as they rode into the bailey late in the afternoon. The tower was humming with its usual activity, the familiar sounds of soldiers at practice and horses moving about comforting to Oscar now. Farren came out to greet them, clapping his son on the shoulder without a word, and Oscar smiled at the gesture as he swung down from his horse and handed the reins off to a stable hand waiting nearby. He pulled his pack down, and went to reach for Wamba’s as well, when a hand closed suddenly about the scruff of his neck and jerked him to a halt.

He stumbled, choking as the collar of his tunic pulled tight across his throat. He managed to twist in the implacable grip and crane a look over his shoulder. The scowling visage of the farrier greeted him, a murderous light in his small black eyes.

“What?” he squawked.

“Is something the matter, Donnel?” Wamba asked, frowning at the scene. Behind him, Thomas and Farren were both alert and watchful.

“I’d have a word with your servant, my lord,” the farrier growled, giving Oscar a shake.

“I’m sure you can do so without any undue violence,” Wamba said sternly. “Oscar is capable of speaking with you peaceably.”

“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him until today, and I’ve been looking for a week. He’ll not be running away from me again now that I’ve caught him.”

Wamba’s brow lifted in confusion, as Oscar’s heart lurched in sudden panic. There was only one possible reason the farrier would be so determined to find him, and it was a matter he had yet to discuss with Wamba.

“His absence was my doing,” Wamba said, “and now that we are returned, I am sure we are prepared to listen to whatever you have to say.”

“Not here,” the farrier said, shaking Oscar as he turned him forcibly in the direction of the small workshop adjoining the stables.

“Very well,” Wamba said, and it was clear he was determined to go along and see what trouble Oscar had caused to earn the farrier’s ire. Oscar’s mind raced, but produced no idea for warning Wamba away, facing alone whatever retribution Donnel would demand and telling Wamba of his transgression on his own terms. The chance for that had passed, while he willfully put it from his mind, carried on as though nothing of note had happened in Wamba’s absence.

The farrier’s workshop was hot from the fire at the far end. Oscar broke out in a sweat, stumbling on the hay-strewn floor as Donnel released him with a shove. He whirled around to face the farrier, and Wamba.

Wamba clasped his hands before him and said, “Is such roughness really necessary? What is all this about?”

The farrier’s gnarled finger jabbed at Oscar’s face, making him flinch back. “My daughter has a child in her belly, and he’s the one that put it there.”

Oscar’s blood turned instantly to ice, cold sweat pouring down his temples and between his shoulder blades as he gasped for breath.

Wamba’s expression turned steely, his jaw firming. “Your daughter must be mistaken, sir. There is no chance the babe in question belongs to Oscar.”

His words, firm and sure, pierced Oscar like knives. 

“Your boy has been getting up to mischief while you weren’t watching,” the farrier snorted. “Look at that face and tell me I’m wrong.”

Wamba turned to Oscar then, and Oscar saw it, the moment his faith in Oscar cracked, the moment he realized what Oscar had done. “Oh,” he breathed, faint and broken. Oscar had never known the sound of a heart shattering could be so quiet.

Oscar opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Nothing he could say would right this.

Wamba stared at him, a devastated confusion in his eyes. Then his expression closed, and all that was left was ruthless calm. He lifted his chin and turned to the farrier. “It seems the mistake was mine. I have no doubt Oscar will take responsibility for his child.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” the farrier growled, casting a baleful eye over Oscar’s shaking, sweating form. “You’re coming with me. We’re going to see the priest in the morning.”

Wamba nodded. “Yes, I think that would be best.”

“Wait,” Oscar managed to croak at last. He stumbled toward Wamba, reaching out, but Wamba stepped away from his touch. “I didn’t mean to.”

Wamba’s eyes were flat and empty. “It matters little at this stage, I think.”

“But I don’t want it,” Oscar insisted.

The mask cracked, just for a moment, and Wamba’s anguish shone through. Then he gathered himself once more, squared his shoulders and said, very quietly, “A last piece of advice. Never let your child know that that was ever true.”

“Wamba,” he whispered.

“You should go, Oscar.”

“But…”

“Please go.”

Despair welled up inside him, and Oscar did not fight, as Donnel grasped him by the scruff once more and dragged him outside. Farren eyed Oscar as was marched through the bailey, and Oscar saw him turn and duck into the workshop before he was propelled through the gate.

The farrier did not release him, dragging him along while the buildings spun around him in a dizzying blur and he wished desperately to wake from this nightmare that had engulfed him. When he looked up at last, he was in a small square he had seen once before, the door of a lopsided tenement opening before him.

Alice waited there, her eyes sharp and cruel and her smile full of victory.

“Hello, Oscar,” she purred. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Part Two


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_Something was not as it should be._

_That niggling unease drew Cedric along toward wakefulness, as his mind cast about seeking to define the source of the feeling. A frown creased his brow as the answer continued to elude him, and he was forced to open his eyes and take stock of the chamber around him. It was dark, but for the orange glow of the fire that flung roiling shadows across the ceiling. He turned his head to cast an eye across the empty space beside him. He ran his hand along the bedding, warm with the lingering heat of an absent body, and sighed._

_It was not so very uncommon for Wamba’s nightmares to drive him from their bed. No matter how many times Cedric reminded him that he had only to ask for comfort when he had need of it, Wamba remained either unwilling or incapable of placing such demands on his master. Indeed, it was a fortune to look about and find him fled no further than the hearth, rather than out into the castle where Cedric would be forced either to go in search of him or to spend an uneasy night waiting for him to return._

_Wamba was clad in his worn linen nightshirt, huddled on the pelt before the fire with his knees tucked close to his chest. He stared intently into the flames, his back to Cedric. He looked small, and vulnerable, and Cedric could not abide it. So the Saxon rose from the bed, quietly so as not to disturb the boy’s reverie, and approached with slow steps. It was only once he drew near that he realized the object of Wamba’s fixed gaze was not the fire, but his own hand. He held it extended before him, a dark silhouette against the flames, studying the silver ring that Cedric had gifted him. It glowed in the darkness, a flickering shard of firelight heavy with solemn promises._

_Cedric lowered himself slowly to one knee, settling just behind Wamba, and reached past the boy’s shoulder to scoop the slender hand into his, brushing his thumb over the smooth metal. Wamba gasped, his shoulders drawing tight on instinct, but they dropped again as he turned and recognized his master. Cedric pulled Wamba’s hand up, drawing it to his mouth to lay a kiss on his knuckles._

_“What ghosts haunt you tonight, dear child?”_

_Wamba’s expression spoke of countless worries, his dark eyes wide and uncertain, but he gave voice to none of them and forced a smile to his face instead. “I am well, my lord,” he said softly. “Apologies for waking you.”_

_Cedric treated him to a baleful look. “I am an old man, but my eyes are not yet so feeble nor my wits so dull that I cannot recognize your disquiet.”_

_“You’re not old, master,” Wamba protested at once. The corner of his mouth turned down, but Cedric could not say whether it was concern or displeasure that weighted it._

_“My knees would beg to differ,” Cedric grunted. “They tire already of this hard floor, and I have a comfortable bed at my disposal much more suited to lengthy conversation.”_

_He levered himself to his feet, while Wamba jumped up and offered his hands to steady him. Cedric looked at the boy, the small furrow between his brows, and could not help but cup a gentle hand around his cheek. Wamba’s eyes fell closed, and he tipped his face into Cedric’s palm, a soft breath sweeping over the Saxon’s skin._

_“Come,” Cedric said, low and private, and led Wamba back to bed. He settled himself against the headboard, a pillow to cushion him from the carved wood. He pulled Wamba firm against him, so the boy was framed neatly between his legs, his back to Cedric’s chest. At the Saxon’s prompting he rested his weight against his master, while Cedric wrapped one arm securely around the narrow chest, signaling safety in the way Wamba understood best. His other hand took Wamba’s again, offering a reassuring press._

_“Now,” he said, “tell me what troubles you.”_

_Wamba bowed his head, his hair falling to hide his features. “Truly, my lord, it was nothing of consequence.”_

_“I will be the judge of that,” Cedric told him firmly. Wamba had kept true to his word, as far as Cedric could tell, and had uttered no more lies since they had first come to their understanding after Torquilstone. Instead, he had cultivated an arsenal of studied evasions, endeavoring to distract Cedric from his turmoil rather than explain it. Cedric would stand for none of this. He waited in pointed silence while Wamba’s throat bobbed on a heavy swallow._

_Wamba took a quiet breath, and held it. Then, ever so quietly, he asked, “Your friend Lord Avery arrives this week?”_

_“He does,” Cedric nodded. He had mentioned as much to Wamba earlier that very night. “What of it?”_

_“I wonder if I might have your permission…”_

_Cedric waited as he trailed off, but no more was forthcoming. “My permission?” he prompted._

_“My lord,” Wamba said, in a halting whisper. “My lord, is it your wish that I should entertain him?”_

_"I do not see why it should be otherwise,” Cedric said, frowning. It was unlike Wamba to seek to avoid his duties, though he had done so once before with Avery. Reminded now of the offense, Cedric was of no mind to encourage further disobedience._

_Wamba’s breath hitched, and his head dropped even lower. He said nothing._

_“I know he has not been the kindest to you,” Cedric said reasonably, “but that is in the past, and no just cause why we should not offer him all hospitality."_

_Wamba jerked, as though Cedric had thrust a knife into him rather than simply instructed him to perform his function. A tear flashed down from behind the curtain of his hair, and he laughed, harsh and tinged with an alarmingly familiar madness. “Of course,” he rasped. “Of course. As you wish, my lord."_

_Cedric reached up to sweep away the pale barrier that concealed Wamba’s face from him. He was unprepared for the pure agony that met him. He saw it for an instant, and then Wamba’s eyes closed, casting more tears loose to trail down his cheeks._

_“Wamba,” Cedric breathed. “Why these tears? What troubles you so? I do not ask anything of you that you have not done for me before.”_

_Wamba laughed again, cracked and hollow in a way that terrified Cedric. The boy swiped at his cheeks, but the tears were falling swiftly now, more swiftly than he could brush them away. "Yes, my lord,” he said. “It is only that I thought I might be for your use alone now."_

_“My use?” Cedric echoed, baffled. The conversation had escaped his command with startling speed, but a faint hint of a possible explanation sparked in his mind, and with growing horror he grasped Wamba’s chin and turned the boy to face him. "What do you mean? Wamba, did he harm you?"_

_Wamba blinked at him, swallowing down his emotions. “He is not gentle,” he whispered, “but if it is your will that I should serve him again, I will do so.”_

_“Again.” That was it, the truth that Wamba would not say outright. The accusation that he could not make against a man so much more powerful than he. Cedric stared at Wamba, horrified by the thought of Wamba subjected to such treatment, here within the walls of Rotherwood where he should have been safe. What Wamba asked was not Cedric’s permission, but his protection. And in his abominable ignorance, Cedric had refused it. “Why did you not tell me of this sooner?”_

_Wamba shrugged one shoulder, his face darkening in a humiliated flush._

_“Did you think it would not matter?” Cedric insisted. “Did you think I would let him?”_

_“Yes,” Wamba admitted, his body braced for a rebuke that never came._

_Cedric tilted his face up once more, careful but adamant, until Wamba finally met his eyes. “You believed that of me,” he said quietly, “and yet you came to my bed?”_

_Wamba just looked at him for a moment, sad and resigned. Then he whispered, "It’s what I am for."_

_“No, child,” Cedric said, calm as he could be while his very soul ached. “What you are for is to be cherished.”_

_Wamba’s eyes welled anew, his disbelief clear enough to see. He did not contradict his master, but turned away, and Cedric allowed it._

_He wrapped both arms around Wamba instead, clasping his slave to his chest and tilting his head down to speak directly into Wamba’s ear. “Listen to me now. I did not give him permission to hurt you. He did not ask, and if he had I would have refused. The responsibility I have to care for my people is a sacred one. I would suffer none of them to be subjected to unwanted attentions, and my own are no exception. You always have the right to refuse me, Wamba. I do not want you unwilling.”_

_A hoarse sob tore from Wamba’s throat, and his arms closed over Cedric’s, shaking hands clasped to his master’s wrists. Cedric clutched him closer still._

_“I have promised to protect you, and for as long as I draw breath I will do so. If anyone seeks to harm you in any way, you will tell me without hesitation or delay. I care not if he be the king himself. Do you understand?”_

_Wamba lifted his face then, a glimpse of timid hope breaking through the doubt. “Yes, master.”_

_“Good,” Cedric said. “You are safe here. So there is no need to fear. Rest easy, my Wamba.”_

_Another nod acknowledged his words, but the tension shivering through Wamba’s form still told Cedric that rest would not come so easily to him. Cedric had offered all the reassurance he could, but he knew another way to release that energy and send the boy to sleep._

_With a light touch, he slid Wamba’s shift to the side to drape loose off of his shoulder, and began to suck a slow line of kisses along his slave’s skin and up onto his neck. Wamba’s breath left him in a long sigh, his limbs falling loose as he melted against his master. Cedric slid his hands beneath Wamba’s knees and lifted his legs so they were draped over Cedric’s own, opening him though he made no move to disrobe the boy. Anger boiled inside Cedric still, that anyone would dare to rip from Wamba that which was so much sweeter when coaxed free with gentle words and sure hands. It frightened him at times, how much he coveted this boy, the lengths to which he was prepared to go to thwart any who would dare try to take him away. Cedric let none of those fierce emotions color his touch, kept his hands gentle and protective as Wamba preferred, and watched the slender body arch slowly in supplication._

_"I grow tired of hiding you,” he heard himself say. “I want you beside me at table as well as at night."_

_Wamba nodded, eyes closed as he panted, “As you wish. My chair is still there.”_

_Cedric frowned, wondering to what chair he referred, before he remembered the jester’s stool that remained abandoned on the dais, the shameful post to which Cedric had sworn never to return him. His hands stilled, and Wamba opened his eyes, confused at the interruption._

_“Do you never believe me?” Cedric asked. “Do you never believe the promises I make to you?”_

_Wamba flushed. “Forgive me.”_

_Cedric shook his head. “You are not at fault. If I wish to have your trust, I suppose I must do more to earn it.”_

_“I trust you, master,” Wamba said at once._

_Cedric swept a hand up the inside of his thigh and up into the space between his legs. Wamba flinched, trying to draw his legs closed, though braced as they were, they did not shift far. He relaxed nearly at once, but it still took time for his reason to counter the power of long instinct, even after a year in his master’s bed._

_“No,” Cedric said. “I do not think you do.”_

_He probed at the skin beneath his fingers, still hot and tender from their earlier union. The touch made Wamba’s hips twitch, pressing back against him._

_"Will you, master?”  
_

_Cedric considered it, but he knew that taking Wamba again now would only cause him pain. "No," he decided, and hushed Wamba's faint whine, rubbing a soothing hand over his belly before it slipped down to take the boy’s cock in a sure grip. “I will not leave you wanting. Now tell me. Do you want my hand or my mouth?”_

_Wamba jerked again, with a gasp, and Cedric thought for a moment that the question alone would be enough to push him over, but Wamba fell back against him once more, shivering._

_“Tell me honestly,” he instructed, working Wamba slowly as he waited._

_“Your hand, master,” Wamba gasped at last._

_Between the two offered choices, Cedric knew which Wamba preferred. He sighed and gave Wamba a reproachful squeeze. “The truth.”_

_Wamba yelped, shaking. “It is the truth, my lord. In truth, I want to stay like this.”_

_That mollified Cedric somewhat. He sucked at Wamba’s shoulder and slid his free hand over the boy’s ribs, firm the way he liked. "Then that is what you shall have.”_

_Wamba moaned, as Cedric began to stroke him in earnest. The pale head fell back against the Saxon’s shoulder, soft sounds of desire escaping him. Cedric put his mouth to Wamba’s throat to savor the vibration of them on his tongue, and clamped his arm across the slight body to hold him steady as he began to succumb to the pleasure of it._

_He kept on, relentless, until Wamba's breath caught, and he arched up as he spilled with a strangled moan. He hung there, suspended for a long moment, then collapsed panting back against Cedric. The Saxon gentled him as he calmed, satisfied, and kissed his fingers when one hand reached up to brush across Cedric's cheek._

_”What about you, master?” he asked breathlessly._

_“I am content," Cedric told him. "This was for you.”_

_“Thank you, master,” Wamba murmured, his head nodding and eyes drooping closed as his arm fell and his weight against Cedric’s chest grew heavy. It was precisely the result Cedric had hoped for. He carefully shifted Wamba down so that his head rested on a pillow, and drew the blankets and furs up to keep him from the cold. He stayed beside Wamba, stroking his hair gently, until he was certain that the boy was deeply asleep. Only then did he rise and go to his table, searching out a scrap of parchment and a quill that still bore a serviceable point._

_The letter he wrote was curt and formal. He read it over by the light of the fire, ensuring the message was impossible to mistake. He would send it out at dawn, with strict instruction that no reply was to be received. Avery would not be welcome at Rotherwood again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex. Wamba is 17.


	60. Chapter 60

There was salt on Oscar’s lips. He did not recall how it had come to be there, as he had sworn never to let his tears fall where Alice could see them, but the biting tang of misery mocked him with his own failure each time he licked his lips. He lived that first day in a fog of disbelief, fully convinced that at any moment he would wake and discover it had all been a terrible dream. He waited, through that first interminable night. He waited as he was marched into a ramshackle chapel in the morning and directed through the steps of a formal betrothal beneath the remorseless gaze of the priest, the farrier’s menacing breath hot on his neck and one hand fierce on his arm.

But waking never came. The nightmare persisted, and he was as he was manhandled back into the cramped tenement, forced to share a bed with a woman he could scarce look at, much less touch. She tried to seduce him, pawing at him impatiently, but Oscar could not even consider it. He had no loyalty to her. He had made promises already, spoken words of profound truth from the depths of his heart. No oaths made under duress, out of duty, could supplant them, no matter that the church blessed one and not the other. So he turned his back to her, and stared at the wall with his hands clenched into tight fists, until it was time to rise. Oscar had spent a year as a prisoner and yet he had never felt so trapped, so powerless as he did now.

Walking into the tower again took all the courage he had left, and a hearty shove from the farrier to spur him. He darted nervous glances around the bailey as they cleared the gate, wary of finding Farren, or Thomas there to cast judgment upon him. Or, worst of all, Wamba himself. Had he a tail, it would have been tucked firmly between his legs. Lacking that, he walked with hunched shoulders and a bowed head, gazing no higher than the boots of those he passed.

“Be back here at dusk,” Donnel said, giving him a shake for good measure, “and don’t think I won’t raise the castle to find you if you’re not.”

Oscar nodded, not lifting his eyes. He waited until the farrier had stumped off, leaving boot prints in the wet mud of the yard, then turned to go to his own duties. The main doors of the keep opened to admit him, ushering him into familiar corridors that grew quiet as he made his way deeper into the tower. In one regard, it was a refuge, a place where Alice could not follow, but fraught with peril, for Wamba could be waiting around any corner. Oscar’s heart thumped an anxious beat against his ribs with every set of strange steps that approached him. No one stopped, or acknowledged him in any way, so he arrived finally at the archives with undeniable relief.

He nodded to the guards and pushed inside, into the cramped room that smelled just as he remembered, of dust and fragrant wood and seasoned leather. He closed the door, but rested his hand there for a moment, his brow pressed to the back of it while he fought to gather himself.

“Oscar?” Nicholas’s voice called from within. “Is that you?”

Oscar swallowed, and cleared his throat. “Yes,” he croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse and the constant knot that made every breath an agony.

“Where have you been? I was expecting you back two days ago!”

“I know,” Oscar said, unable to shift himself from the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, that’s all very nice, but I think I should like an explanation at the very least.” Nicholas’s voice was growing closer, the tapping of boot heels drawing to a stop just behind Oscar. “Are you ill?”

Oscar gathered himself, and forced himself to stand straight and turn to face Nicholas. He was startled by what an unspeakable relief it was to see the familiar form of the archivist, just as he remembered him, from his artfully tousled curls to his garish robes. Narrow gray eyes widened as they took Oscar in.

“Good lord,” Nicholas exclaimed. “What in heaven’s name has happened to you?”

“Is it that bad?” Oscar asked wearily. He had not bothered to inspect his appearance that morning, unable to muster the courage to look himself in the eye.

“I’m astounded the guards didn’t mistake you for a common ruffian, looking like that.” He was only half joking. The hint of concern in his cocked brow told Oscar how awful he must look to evoke even that much pity from the aloof archivist.

Oscar tried to smile, but his mouth would not quite lift. Inexplicably, his eyes and throat began to sting.

“Ah! None of that,” Nicholas commanded him, raising a warding hand. “Not until you’ve explained.”

Oscar obediently swallowed down the rising tears, while a surprisingly gentle hand took his elbow and guided him through the maze of shelves to the table. Nicholas pushed him into a chair and pressed a goblet into his hands. Oscar drank, swallowing down the wine though it tasted putrid to his tongue. Nicholas took his usual seat at the opposite end of the table, and leaned forward on his elbows. He laced his fingers together and rested his chin atop them, narrowing his eyes at Oscar.

“This is to do with Cedric, I presume?”

Oscar nodded, dropping his eyes to the cup in his hands.

“Out with it, then.”

Nicholas would perhaps not have been his first choice of confidant, but he knew more than nearly anyone else about Oscar’s life, and he was showing himself unexpectedly willing to listen.

“You remember Alice?”

“That little vixen?” Nicholas frowned. “I thought were well beyond having to bother about her.”

Oscar drew a breath, choking on the truth he had not yet spoken aloud as he said, “She carries my child.”

Nicholas’s face went slack in utter astonishment. “What?” He stood, both hands slamming down flat on the table top, and scowled at Oscar with disgust curling his lip. “What in all the hells were you thinking?”

Oscar bowed his head, tears rising at last, and before he realized what was happening the story began to pour from him, a jumbled mess of words and thoughts that he could not contain. He told Nicholas about receiving word that the king’s party was snowed in at York, of Alice bringing him food and offering him comfort, of losing consciousness and of waking the following day and realizing what she had done. He spoke of the plot to expose her for a thief, and how he had thought it resolved until Donnel seized him in the bailey.

As he spoke, from the corner of his eye, he saw Nicholas slowly return to his seat, until he was leaning on his hands once more, his expression twisted with pity now rather than disdain. He sat in silence for a long moment once Oscar had trailed off, then heaved a gusty sigh. 

“I did warn you about her,” he said, though from his tone he took no joy in the fact.

“I know,” Oscar whispered. “You were right. I’m a fool.”

“Fool indeed if you thought it was wise to conceal this from Cedric,” Nicholas said, mercilessly direct.

“I meant to tell him,” Oscar insisted, “but he had hardly returned when he was summoned by the archbishop. He had enough to worry him, and then I didn’t want to ruin our journey. I thought I had time.”

Nicholas just watched him, shaking his head. “You’ve made rather a mess of everything, haven’t you?”

Oscar swallowed hard, and closed his eyes. “How do I fix it?”

“I'm hard pressed to see how you can,” Nicholas said. “She’s bested you, Oscar. A babe is not the sort of mess that can be mopped up and sent out with the wash. The best you can hope for is that he might forgive you, in time. Even then, you will never be what you once were. Are you prepared to betray your wedding vows if he asked?”

“He wouldn’t ask,” Oscar said, completely certain of this truth.

“Hard to say what someone will do, particularly where matters of the heart are concerned. Men compromise their souls every day for simple earthly pleasures.”

“He won’t,” Oscar insisted. Wamba would probably never speak to him again, and Oscar deserved that, but nothing hurt more than the thought that Wamba believed Oscar had betrayed him of his own free will. Even if they could not be together, even then, at the very least Oscar wanted him to know that Oscar had meant every word of devotion he had uttered. He glanced at Nicholas, who gazed off into empty space with a contemplative expression. “Would you mind giving me a bit of parchment?”

Nicholas looked back to Oscar, and his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I need to explain. I didn’t have a chance to tell him what happened.”

“You’re probably going to need more than a bit of parchment for that,” Nicholas said. He waved a hand. “Take what you need. Go and write your confession. I’ll make due without you for another day. Come back tomorrow prepared to work.”

Oscar breathed a sigh, realizing only belatedly that the small part of him not consumed with his own pain or Wamba’s had worried this latest failing might be enough to cause Nicholas to rid himself of Oscar for good. It was a small relief to know that he had still had his work and his tenuous friendship with the archivist.

“Thank you.”

Oscar took a scroll for himself, and a fresh quill from the stores. He had nowhere else to go, so he passed the remainder of the morning and much of the afternoon there at the table in the archive with Nicholas’s shuffling and bumping and small exclamations a constant backdrop. At first, he thought of how to couch the things he needed to say in the careful language that they had always used for their private communications, but there was no room for anything but perfect honesty in what he needed to say. He wrote from his heart, spelling out the truth of what had happened, and the snare into which he had walked like a dull coney grown fat and complacent on peaceful days in the garden. He spoke of his love, honestly and sincerely and regretfully, knowing that it might be the last time he was ever free to share those sentiments.

The resulting missive, when he read it over, was an utter shambles, but it was true and the writing of it had exhausted him. He rolled the scroll carefully, and closed it fast with a leather thong. As the sun began to descend from its peak, he shoved himself to his feet and, with a final word of thanks to Nicholas, went to find the only person he trusted to deliver his letter.

Emma was most likely to be found in the laundry or the kitchens at that time of day, but Oscar could not face that chaos now. He made his way instead to the storeroom at the top of the stairs in the north wing, where she would return to restock the candles before evening. He shut the door behind him, entombing himself in the dim, cool space. He felt his way to the back of the narrow cupboard, where there was a gap in the shelves just a few inches wider than his shoulders. He leaned back against the stone wall, and slid down to sit on the floor.

It was there, in the dark and quiet, that he finally lost his hold on his sorrow. It flooded from him in wracking sobs, as he clutched the parchment onto which he had poured his heart to his aching chest and wished desperately that he could turn back time and undo what had been done. He did not know how much time passed before the door opened, and he quickly scrubbed his wrist across his face, blinking in the sudden wash of light.

Emma’s diminutive form bustled into the storeroom, her cap askew and her arms full of tallow candles. Oscar shuffled his feet beneath him and stood. Emma’s head snapped around at the sudden motion, and she shrieked. The candles tumbled from her grasp, spilling to the floor with a raucous clatter. One rolled to butt against Oscar’s boot, so he bent to retrieve it in his free hand and held it out to her wordlessly.

He could see the moment she recognized him, for her face crumpled in sympathy, and she stepped over the fallen candles, past his outstretched hand, to wrap her strong arms tight about his chest. “Oh, Oscar,” she said softly. “How could she? How dare she do this to you?”

It was no surprise that the story had reached her ears, well informed as she always was, but the immediate forgiveness, the lack of any trace of condemnation, nearly broke Oscar. His eyes welled anew. He dropped the candle, though he never relinquished his grip on the scroll, to return her embrace just as fiercely.

She let him weep quietly for a while, then pulled away to look at him. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“Don’t you already know the whole story?” Oscar asked, doing his best to smile, though it felt frail and false.

Emma shook her head, her soft, round face unexpectedly fierce. “I’ll not tolerate anyone spreading horrible lies about you. Nor believe their ridiculous stories.”

“Does everyone know?” he asked, resigned.

“There’s rumors enough to choke a goose being floated about,” Emma said, sitting down on the floor and pulling him down with her. Half of her face was in shadow, in the meager light that flowed through the open door. “She was carrying on with all sorts while she was here. There’s plenty of cause to doubt the child is even yours.”

Oscar passed the scroll from hand to hand, trying to ignore the creeping despair that threatened to drown him. “I cannot deny that there is a chance it is, and anyway, we’ve already been betrothed.”

Emma scowled. “Why did you do a thing like that? By the time you know for certain, you’ll be shacked to her for good regardless and it won’t make a whit of difference.”

“I wasn’t given much choice in the matter,” Oscar said. “We thought we got the better of her, but we were wrong. She found a way to have her revenge.”

Emma’s face contorted, and she said, hushed and hesitant. “You know, there are herbs that can take care of these sorts of problems.”

Oscar knew. He had thought of just such a solution, in the depths of his desperate imaginings, but even then he had known it was not a choice he could ever make. He could not kill his own child, no matter how much he despised its mother. Such a heartless action would close the door entirely on any possibility that Wamba would ever forgive him.

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“So you’re just going to let her win?” Emma insisted. “Do nothing? What about your magistrate?”

“He’s not mine anymore,” Oscar whispered, and that was the most painful truth of all. “But I do need to finish things with him properly. Will you help me?”

Emma’s small, rough hand closed about his. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Could you take this to him?” Oscar asked, holding up the scroll. “You can leave it in his chambers.”

“You don’t want to do it yourself?”

Oscar shook his head. “If he wants to speak to me, he can find me. If he wants nothing more to do with me, I'm going to respect that.”

“That’s not so,” Emma said. “It can’t be.”

“I can’t explain more,” Oscar said. “Just, please, make sure this gets to him?”

Emma took the scroll from his hand. “I will. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Oscar rasped. He clasped her fingers tightly, then released her. “I have to go. Donnel will be waiting for me.”

“You’ll be in the archives tomorrow?” Emma asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll come and find you there.”

“Alright.”

Oscar found a smile to show her, and it felt more natural than the first. He made his way back to the bailey. His feet began to drag as he drew closer, but he found himself inevitably standing before the scowling farrier once more.

“You’re late.”

Oscar said nothing. Donnel seized him and shoved Oscar ahead of him toward the gate, back toward the prison that was all the home that awaited him now.


	61. Chapter 61

The farrier’s tenement was cramped and hot from the fire, with a low ceiling and a small table bracketed by two benches and a single chair. Donnel and his wife slept in the garret room above, while Alice’s bed was tucked into the narrow space beneath the crooked stairs, partitioned only by a thin curtain. That screen was pulled back and Alice was seated on the bed mending a shirt when Oscar and Donnel returned. Alice’s mother, whose name, if she had one, Oscar had yet to hear spoken aloud, swayed as she stirred a pot of something over the fire. The smell caused Oscar’s empty stomach to cramp in rejection, though it even that was overpowered by the cloying odor of mead that emanated from she who cooked it.

“Woman,” Donnel growled at her as he stumped to the table and dropped down onto the creaking chair, “have you drained the whole cask again?”

His wife returned a hateful glare, though her eyes were not quite focused on him. “I’m here making your supper, aren’t I?”

“That doesn’t mean you haven’t been swilling the mead. Bring me a flagon. It was bought with my coin, and I’ll not have you denying me my share.”

A snarled curse was the reply, and voices began to rise. Oscar closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall beside the door, and tried to find some peaceful memory to give him refuge from this place. He was interrupted by a hand on his wrist, and looked to see Alice peering up at him with a smile that bore no true warmth. She offered him a cup, filled with the mead that was the source of the strife.

“I set aside a bit for you,” she said sweetly.

Oscar’s throat constricted, and he took the cup but did not drink. He did not trust anything from her hand, and even had he not suspected her motives, he had no desire to drown his sorrows in drink. He needed his wits about him if he was to survive and find a way to make things bearable again. Alice’s smile flattened into a hard line at his lack of response.

“Get over here!” the mother snapped at them, thumping bowls down onto the table. The pottage she had prepared slopped onto the table at the indelicate handling.

Oscar stepped away from Alice and sat, though she followed, and settled on the bench beside him much closer than she need be. Oscar ignored her, noting that Donnel had succeeded in appropriating some of the mead for himself. He quaffed it down greedily and shoved the cup into his wife’s chest in a demand for more. Oscar set his own cup beside his bowl, and regarded the mush of oats and cabbage. The steam that rose from it bore a flat, oily odor, and bits of hard gristle were speckled throughout, glistening sickeningly. Oscar’s stomach rebelled at the very sight, and he made no move to lift his spoon.

Donnel scooped up the vile mess in heaping spoonfuls, gulping it down fast enough that it had little chance to assail his tongue with its flavor and chasing it with more mead. Bits of grease and stray lumps showered down into his beard. Alice ate more sedately, without any hint of distaste, perhaps more accustomed to such fare if she had been reared on it. Her mother did not eat, but fixed a narrow gaze on Oscar across the table.

“Is my food too simple for your high-flown tastes, boy?”

“I’m not hungry,” Oscar said, flat and expressionless.

Alice’s mother stood, her fists clenched on the table top. “You’ll eat the food I’ve made for you, you ungrateful little worm, or you can sleep in the street.”

“Mother!” Alice snapped.

“It’s not proper, him thinking he can turn his nose up at an honest meal. You’re not living in the castle now, boy. No more bitty birds and sweetmeats for you. You weren’t too good to for a tumble with my daughter. You’re not too good for my food.”

“Mother, stop it!” Alice shrieked. She slammed one small fist down beside her bowl.

“I’m not hungry,” Oscar said again, unwilling to justify himself further. Alice’s mother was spoiling for yet another fight, and no answer he gave would appease her.

She snarled, and reached across the table to snatch Oscar’s bowl in a clawed hand. She swung it at him, flinging the watery mush into his face. Donnel shouted something, and Alice was screeching as well, but Oscar could not discern the words for the ringing in his ears. Slowly, he reached up and wiped the mess from his face. Then he bolted to his feet, knocking the bench back and nearly unseating Alice. Without a word, he stalked to the door and out into the cool of the night toward the well in the center of the square.

Alice followed after him, calling his name, but he ignored her. He tugged up the bucket, while she fluttered around him, swiping a cloth at his face and hair. He swatted her hands away and tipped the bucket over his head instead. The shock of it was bracing, and cooled some of the rage that had overtaken him. He shook like a dog, scattering cold drops around him and showering Alice. She was undeterred, seizing his arm and speaking to him urgently.

“Don’t mind her. She’s just had a bit too much to drink. This has all upset her. She doesn’t do well with changes.”

“She’s upset?” Oscar scoffed, letting all the venom in his heart color his words. “You must be joking. No wonder you haven’t the faintest idea how decent people treat one another.”

He shook off her hands, but she grasped him again immediately, staring insistently up at him. “We don’t have to stay here. Once we’re married, we can have our own room somewhere.”

“That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?” he realized. “Someone to take you away from this place.” He jerked his head in the direction of the open door, where Donnel stood watching them suspiciously, alert should Oscar try to run.

“What’s wrong with that?” Alice said, her jaw set stubbornly. “What’s wrong with wanting a better life?”

“It’s not the wanting of it that’s wrong, but the means by which you chose to win it.”

Alice rolled her eyes, releasing him at last to plant her fists on her hips. “How long must you sulk about this? Is being with me really so terrible a thing as all that? I will be a good wife to you. We can be happy.”

“I was happy,” Oscar growled. “You destroyed that, for your own selfish ends. There are any number of men who might have loved you, but you chose me instead. I do not want this life with you. I will do right by my child, provide for both of you, but I will not love you. Do not ask me to.”

He did not wait to hear what she would say next. He returned to the tenement instead, stripping off his soiled tunic as he went. Donnel turned to let him pass, and Alice, before he closed and bolted the door. Oscar flung his tunic down beside his pack, and dug out the only spare he had with him, tugging it over his head. Alice’s mother had disappeared up into the garret, where he could hear her stumbling about in her drunkenness.

Oscar pulled off his boots, and rolled into the bed, his back to the room. Neither Alice nor Donnel immediately approached or spoke to him, and he tried to find some small relief in that, but his heart was leaden within him, each beat heavy and weary as Oscar himself. Eventually, the room dimmed as the fire was banked, and Alice’s small weight settled against his back. It was not the warmth he wanted, but the space was too narrow to fit them both without touching.

While contact could not be avoided, the hand that brushed over Oscar’s hip and settled presumptuously over his crotch was more than he would tolerate. He snatched Alice’s wrist and shoved her arm back, as he had done the night before.

“Don’t do that again,” he warned.

“Do you mean to live your entire life a monk?” she asked, soft and inviting. “A betrothal is as good as a marriage. There’s no sin in it.”

“Are you weak in the head or have your ears been stuffed up with wax? I will do my duty as your husband, but you will get no more from me.”

Alice sniffed, her tone gone hard. “You’re only a man. You’ll change your tune soon enough.”

Oscar did not reply, and she said no more, settling down with a harrumph. Two sleepless night had driven him to such exhaustion that his body forced rest upon him despite the roiling emotions, the racing thoughts. As sleep rose to envelop him, he wished with all his heart that he would wake to find himself in Wamba’s bed, with love and comfort there within reach.

No such fortune was to be had. He woke just as he had fallen asleep, and heaved himself up for yet another day of misery. He took somewhat more care about his appearance, conscious of the need to perform his duties well and ensure he did not lose even those last few pieces of the life that had been his.

Nicholas nodded approvingly when he saw Oscar, and asked him no questions before he set him to updating the records. The archivist evidently believed this task beneath him, and had allowed the scrolls and letters to pile up while Oscar was away. It was a blessedly simple task, requiring no particular creativity or thought from Oscar, and allowed him to settle into a calm rhythm as he worked methodically through the hoard.

Emma arrived late in the morning, with a sack in her arms that was stretched around the sharp edges of whatever was contained within. He nodded to her, though he could not quite muster a smile. Nicholas was off somewhere amongst the shelves, so she dropped the sack at his feet with a thump and looked him over.

“Saints, Oscar,” she breathed. “I couldn’t see you properly yesterday. You look…”

“What?”

“Broken,” she said. “What has she done to you?”

Oscar shrugged wearily. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Emma said fiercely. “You can’t give up hope so easily. It’s not like you.”

“I don’t know who I am now,” Oscar confessed, staring down at the tome open on the table before him. Wamba was his purpose, in more ways than one. He had been the center of Oscar’s world for years. Without him, Oscar could not see any clear path forward. “I don’t know what to do without him.”

“Well, wasting away is certainly not the answer. Are you eating?”

Oscar shook his head. “I don’t trust her not to drug me again.”

“I’ll go to the kitchens and fetch you up something. In the meantime, I brought you some of your things. What I could say for certain was yours, I mean.” She pointed to the sack.

“You delivered the letter?” Oscar asked, a nauseating mix of hope and trepidation bubbling in his gut. “Did he take it? How did he look?”

“I didn’t see him,” Emma said apologetically. “He wasn’t there. I left your letter on his table.”

Oscar could not deny the disappointment, but he nodded and thanked her anyway. She left on her next errand, and Nicholas appeared almost at once after she had gone. He did not look at Oscar, absorbed in the book in his hands, so Oscar did not disturb him, but he was grateful for the privacy.

He tried to continue his work, but the mystery of the sack niggled, so he set his quill aside and reached down to undo to pick open the knot and pull it open. At the top, he found most of the clothing he had left behind, and his spare boots. Beneath these, to his surprise, was the small wooden chest that had rested beneath his cot in the library. He pulled it out and set it on the table, lifting the lid to let his eyes wander over the simple treasures it held.

Every single item brought with it a memory of Wamba. Oscar brushed his fingers over the simple wax tablets on which he had learned to write, the small notes that Wamba had left him to entice Oscar to practice. Beside them was a blackened chestnut shell, reminder of the winter night he had declared his intentions, and a button he had secretly cut from Wamba’s robe the night his declaration was finally requited. Swift and sharp the memories came, from the small carved figure of a knight that had been gifted to him by the squires of Rotherwood up to the very last thing he had added. It was the book of poetry, lent by Nicholas, bristling with bits of parchment bearing Oscar’s scribbled notes and snatches of verse that he had never had the opportunity to share. All of it was precious, the humble pieces of a life lived together, and Oscar knew that he could not take these anywhere that Alice could find them. He closed the chest again, and rubbed his hand along the metal that bound the lid, wondering who he could trust to keep it safe.

“Cedric has been quite conspicuously absent from court since you returned,” Nicholas said suddenly.

Oscar looked up. Nicholas was watching him, his expression tinged with the pity that was growing familiar now. Oscar flushed to think what emotions must have been plain in his face for the archivist to see. “Perhaps he was with the king.”

“No,” Nicholas said. “His majesty has presided at dinner every night this week. It is most unusual that Cedric should be absent.”

“Then there is some other reason,” Oscar said. “I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

Nicholas hummed, and went back to his book. “Leave that here, if you like. There’s some space on the top shelf beside the Ireland treaties.”

Oscar blinked, stunned at the offer and at how clearly Nicholas had deduced his dilemma. “Really? You don’t mind?”

“If I do not mean a thing, I do not say it.”

Oscar smiled faintly, touched by the stilted concern. “Thank you.”

Nicholas nodded, acknowledging the thanks without looking up. Oscar returned his spare clothing to the sack to take with him, and concealed the chest where Nicholas had instructed. Then he returned to work.

That became the pattern of his days. He helped in whatever way Nicholas required of him, and ate the meals that Emma brought to him. Each day he asked after Wamba. Each day he received the same response. Nicholas had not seen him at court, and Emma had heard nothing. At night, he returned to Alice’s family, and refused all food and drink. Donnel’s mood grew darker, his wife’s barbs more poisonous. Alice continued to test his resolve, some days more insistent than others, and Oscar continued to push her away.

There was no response to Oscar’s letter, no sign or signal at all that Wamba had even seen it. Oscar began to search the bailey each day, looking for Farren or Thomas, someone whom he could approach to at least ask if Wamba was well, if someone was looking after him in Oscar’s stead. There was no sign of either of them.

In this way, the days blurred together, and Oscar was shocked to walk into the farrier’s home one evening and see Alice dressed in a pale blue dress with white laces. She stood on a bench while her mother tinkered with the hem, and she smiled when she saw Oscar.

“What do you think?”

The dress suited her, the shade making her blue eyes glow. It hugged her bosom and curved close to her waist, draped smooth over a belly that had not yet begun to swell. She was beautiful, and Oscar had never hated anything more.

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” he asked sourly.

“Hardly,” she said. “There are only a few days left to prepare.”

Oscar’s heart stalled, and his throat clicked. “What?”

Alice laughed. “Haven’t you been counting? We’re going to be married on Sunday.”


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

The morning of Oscar’s wedding dawned clear and bright. He was awake to greet it, as he had been the morning before, and the morning before that.

His final days of freedom had passed in the blink of an eye. His increasingly doleful conferences with Emma in shadowed corners of the castle, the endless spiral of his thoughts as he sought to find some way to escape his fate had all ultimately come to naught. He watched the growing light of inexorable dawn cast its rays through the small window with aching eyes, terrified of the day to come.

His body ached with the accumulated weariness of many sleepless nights. Each time his tortured thoughts quieted enough to let wary tendrils of sleep creep close, the memory of what awaited him startled him to wakefulness once more. He drifted this way, in a nightmarish half-slumber, tossing about restlessly in the suffocating heat of the bed. There was hardly enough air for two in the narrow nook beneath the stairs, and he was drenched in sweat and fighting to draw a full breath by the time he came full awake.

He concentrated on one limb at a time, trying to release their tension and still the silent panic thrumming through him as he stared at the splintered undersides of the stairs above him. Alice stirred and shifted, blowing out a slow sigh, before she gasped, and her eyes popped open, shining with anticipation.

She grinned at Oscar. “We’re getting married today! Can you believe it?”

Oscar had been endeavoring to wrap his mind around that very truth, but he had no desire to tell her as much. He looked at her, amazed that she could harbor such excitement for a marriage that only she desired, and made no reply.

“Cheer up!” Alice slapped at his chest as she hopped from the bed. “I’ll not have you ruining everything with your dour mood. This is a day for celebration!”

There was a thumping from above, and soon Alice’s mother appeared to help her with her preparations. From there, a flurry of activity drove Oscar up and out of bed. He was mostly ignored, except when Alice noticed him pulling his tunic over his head and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“You’re not going to appear at our wedding in that plain old thing, are you? You should wear your blue one.”

Oscar glanced down at the simple gray tunic that covered him, its plain cut the standard uniform for the tower servants. It was far from his best, already several years old, but he would not do as she suggested. He would not wear clothing that had been a gift from Wamba while he bound himself to another. He shook his head and said simply, “This will do.”

Alice sniffed, and turned her back to him. “Fine, then. Have it your way. I’ll just have to be fine enough for both of us.”

Thankfully, he was banished in short order to wait in the square beneath Donnel’s watchful eye. He sat on the lip of the well and stared up at the pale blue of the sky above, watching a pair of sparrows chase one another gracefully through the air. A strange detachment had settled over him, as though a misty curtain had fallen between the world and his thoughts, allowing them to drift absently for a while.

It was the sound of the door opening that shattered his peace and dragged him back to reality once more. Alice’s mother emerged first, followed by the stench of an early dose of mead, and only then by Alice herself. Oscar could not deny that she was lovely. She would have made an enviable bride for any other man but he. Her blue gown was simple but elegant. She had twined her golden curls up with white ribbons to match the lacing on the dress, to sumptuous effect. All this he noted absently. He took no joy in her loveliness, but stood and waited like a man condemned, while her face darkened at his lackluster reaction.

She pushed her nose into the air, and flounced off in the direction of the church. Thanks to Donnel's hard hand, he had no choice but to follow. The short walk felt like a procession to the gallows, with Alice as his unusually comely executioner. Oscar had not dared to show his face to Emmett, too afraid of his brother’s reaction and what it might do to him, so it was only the four of them as they made their way inside. Oscar and Alice were instructed to wait near the altar while Donnel and his wife went to the vestry to make their final attestations and pay the priest for his services.

Oscar stared up at the window hewn into the stone above the carved wooden crucifix, and wondered silently if the crime of loving Wamba had really been so grave as to deserve such a punishment as this. As ever, once his thoughts turned to Wamba they remained there, worrying at his injured heart like a dog with a hare. No matter how dire his own wound, he was not the only one who bore this hurt. Strangely, it gave him a feeble sort of comfort to remember that they were united still, in this pain if in nothing else.

“Oscar,” a voice called sweetly. Small arms closed about Oscar’s neck, and Alice pressed up close against him.

“What are you doing?” he said stonily, taking a grip on her arms to push them away.

Undeterred, Alice wound her arms about his middle instead, smiling up at him. “Are you not the least bit pleased? Not even by the thought of a proper wedding night?”

“Stop that.” Oscar pushed her back again, but she hooked one leg around his, catching him off balance. He took a step back, and she pressed forward so that she straddled his thigh and he could not move without toppling her to the dusty stone floor.

“I don’t want to stop,” Alice said with a smirk. She stretched her face up toward Oscar, leaning in with clear intent.

Oscar turned away, so her kiss landed on his jaw rather than his mouth. “And as ever, my wishes mean nothing to you.”

Alice laughed and shook her head at him. “I know what a man wants. You are no different. In time you will tire of denying it.”

“You’ve nothing to tempt me,” Oscar assured her, unable to keep the scorn from his voice.

The vestry door creaked open, catching them off guard. Alice quickly pushed away and righted herself, while the priest eyed them with disapproval.

“Refrain from desecrating the house of God with your lustfulness, if you would,” he said sourly. “There will plenty of time for such carnal acts once you are sealed in matrimony.”

He carried in his hands the ceremonial cloth that would bind their hands, and a cup for the sacrament. Oscar saw only the noose that would choke him, the poison that would steal any joy that might be left to him. His heart began to race, beating against his ribs as though to free itself from the prison of his chest, fighting as he could not. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, grasping for composure, and swore to himself that he would not let his pain show.

“If you are ready,” the priest said, “we can proceed.”

Oscar took another breath, and another, steeling himself to face his fate.

Then another voice interrupted. “What have you done to that dress, girl?”

Startled, Oscar opened his eyes. Alice’s mother pushed past the priest, and advanced on Alice with narrowed eyes. Oscar looked, surprised to see that an unmistakable stain had bloomed on the front of Alice’s skirts. A glance down revealed a matching mark on his own trousers, where she had been pressed against him.

“You’re bleeding,” he realized.

Alice looked as well, and her eyes widened in horror. “It’s nothing,” she said, her voice rising shrilly. “Nothing to worry about.”

“What are you talking about, idiot girl?” her mother insisted. “Don’t you realize that could be the end of your babe?”

Oscar’s breath caught. Slow, like a sunrise, the enormity of this moment dawned. Freedom. It was nothing less than freedom before him, and all it would cost him was his child.

Alice shook her head wildly, one hand reaching out to take Oscar’s wrist in an iron grip. “It’s nothing! I’ll see to it once we’re married!”

“A babe?” the priest said. “I have heard nothing of this. If she is already quick with child, it complicates matters greatly. There are proper steps that must be taken, rituals that must be performed.”

“What do you mean?” Alice shrieked, whirling toward him. “We have followed your rituals. We waited a whole month already. Just marry us and be done with it!”

“Don’t be daft, girl,” her mother said, grasping her by the arm and shoving her toward Oscar. “You! You have to fix this!”

“Me?” Oscar said incredulously. “I’m not a midwife.”

“It's your get about to be scattered on the ground!” she screeched. "You think of something!"

Oscar stared at Alice, at the desperation in her eyes. He could try to help her, help to save the babe, or do nothing and take what might be his last and only chance to escape, to return to something like the life he had before. He wanted that, had thought of nothing else for a month. But he was shocked to realize that, faced with the possibility, standing at that crossroads, he also did not want his child to die.

“Alright,” he said, as a resigned weight settled over him. “I know someone who can help.”

Donnel reached out to take a firm grip on his collar, a warning in his glare. “Take her straight there, and come straight back.”

Oscar did not deign to reply. He put a hand on Alice’s shoulder and guided her to the door. “Come on.”

She grasped her skirts in both hands and bunched them up to hide the stain as they made their hurried way through the city. The market was teeming with a crush of people. They weaved their way through the main square, dodging creaking carts piled high with the morning catch ferried up from the docks and porters hauling baskets of smoked meats and fresh eggs. Finally they emerged from the chaos into the quieter streets beyond, and Oscar turned at the head of the Jewry.

It was only there that Alice paused, darting him a suspicious glare. “What are we doing here?”

“Do you want help or not?” he asked impatiently.

“They practice witchcraft,” Alice said, hugging the cloak tighter. “You’re trying to kill it, aren’t you? You want the babe to die, and you want me to die!”

“If I wanted either of you to die, I wouldn’t be taking you to the most skilled healer I know. There isn’t time for your ridiculous superstition.”

Alice’s narrowed eyes remained unconvinced, but she followed reluctantly as he made his way up a familiar set of creaking stairs and knocked on the door of the apothecary at the top. It opened almost at once, a pair of wide-set black glaring up at him from a lined face.

“What’s this?” Rachel rasped. “Not even noon, and you come to my door?”

She had two stained satchels slung over her shoulder, and a knot of rope from which empty bottles dangled like strange fruit hung from her hand. She appeared bound for the market. Oscar only hoped she might be persuaded to stay.

“I need your help.”

The old woman’s eyes roved over him, and past to Alice who shifted nervously on the stairs behind him. “Not you that needs my help, is it?”

“No,” he agreed. “She’s with child, but something’s gone wrong. Can you save it?”

“Child?” Rachel echoed, her eyes snapping back to Oscar. “Whose child?”

He fought not to shrink under that sharp gaze. “Mine.”

She spat a contemptuous curse, and sneered at him as though he were a bit of dung that had attached itself to her boot. He did not think it an unfair estimation. Then she dropped her bottles unceremoniously to the floor and beckoned Alice inside with her gnarled hand. “Come here, now. We will see what can be done.”

Alice’s gaze darted warily between Rachel and Oscar, but she reluctantly followed, stepping past Rachel into the apothecary. Oscar made to follow, but Rachel stopped him with a hand against his chest and a dark glare.

“You wait there. This is not business for men to be seeing.”

Oscar nodded mutely, as the door closed between them. He stared at it for a long moment, trying to make sense of the mad tangle that had becomes of his thoughts and emotions. At a loss, he dropped to sit on the top step and watch the passing people below as they moved about their daily affairs, oblivious to his turmoil.

“What am I doing?” he wondered softly to himself. There were far more reasons to wish the child gone than delivered, far more to be gained from that one small sacrifice. He had wished for it, those first nights long weeks ago, imagined what a relief it would be, but when it came to it he could not stand by and let it happen. He leaned his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. He fisted his hair tight and tugged at it in agitation, changing his mind from moment to moment on whether he hoped that Rachel would succeed. It was only one small comfort he had, that whatever the outcome, he had done all he could and need not fear the pricking needles of conscience.

It seemed an age before the latch on the door clanked and it swung open on groaning hinges. Oscar lifted his face reluctantly, and looked up at Rachel. She returned his gaze with an inscrutable look of her own. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. Oscar braced his hands on his knees and levered himself to his feet to face her.

He had to swallow twice before he could speak. “What happened?” he ground out at last. “Were you able to save the child?”

Rachel stared at him for a moment. His palms began to sweat. Then she shook her head. “I could not.”

Oscar’s heart lurched, and he opened his mouth to ask more, but Rachel was not finished.

“It is not possible to save what was never there.”

Oscar frowned, unable to make sense of the words. “What do you mean?”

Rachel shrugged one hunched shoulder. “This is a woman’s monthly blood. No more. There was never a child in her womb.”

“But,” Oscar floundered, “she asked for help.”

“Then it is lucky for you that you brought her to me. One of your physicians would not know the difference.”

“How could she have thought she was with child?”

The look Rachel turned on him was utterly unimpressed. “She did not think it. She made you think it. You are a fool, boy. She proved it.”

Oscar heaved a breath, certain he was about to be ill. He braced one hand on the wall beside him, leaning down to gasp into his knees. By the time the nausea passed, all that was left in its place was rage. He straightened, and brushed past Rachel, shoving the apothecary door open with such force that it flew into the wall and bounced back. A horde of multi-hued bottles rattled on their shelves, and Alice jumped where she was seated on the sturdy work table. Rachel’s tools and odd tinctures had been pushed aside to make room for her, but Oscar noted it only in passing, as he stalked toward Alice with murderous intent.

She shrank back from him, her hands rising to defend herself. He seized her wrists and leaned down to snarl into her face, “You lied.”

Alice flinched, but something hard and hot sparked in her eyes and she lifted her chin, jaw jutting in stubborn challenge. “What if I did?”

“You were never with child.” He shook her, and wondered distantly why he found this truth so shocking when she had been so duplicitous in every other regard.

“I would have been,” Alice snapped, “if you were not such a deviant as to be unable to rise for a woman.”

“So that’s it,” Oscar said, the full design coming clear to him at last. “You wanted to trick me into putting a babe in your belly. You failed the first time, so you concocted this lie to give yourself another chance.”

“Little did I know, you’re no man at all, but a beast that he’s trained to do his bidding,” she hissed. Every ounce of the ugliness inside her was bared now on her face now, stealing her beauty. "Perhaps you would find me more to your liking if I let you rut me like an animal.”

“Do not speak of him,” Oscar snarled, shaking her again. “Don’t you dare speak of him.”

“What?” Alice scoffed. “You can’t even bear to hear the truth? Does he pat your head when you perform your unnatural little tricks for him? After you make him mewl like a mongrel bitch?”

Only by the thinnest remaining thread of control did Oscar manage to keep his hands from her throat. Overcome with disgust, he shoved her away, and shook his head. “Spew your poison all you please. It makes no matter. You have failed.”

“What are you going to do?” Alice demanded. “We are already betrothed. You’re mine, and he can’t have you.”

“I was never yours,” Oscar snapped, “and whatever future it is that awaits you, I will be no part of it.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back to the door. Rachel stood beside it, the tails of the black scarf that bound her hair fluttering in the breeze. She did not smile, but Oscar saw satisfaction in her gaze. She nodded, and he returned it curtly.

“Thank you.”

“Take better care from now on,” she admonished him.

“I will.”

“Oscar!” Alice shouted after him, but he did not look back as he swept out into the sunlight and leapt down the stairs, a new purpose in his step, for the narrow path he faced had opened suddenly before him. He knew he had much to do, if he was to atone for his mistakes, but it seemed possible now, when but a day past there had been only despair.

It was a miracle he did not intend to waste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic language and themes that may be triggering for some readers, including miscarriage and mild violence against women.


	63. Chapter 63

The corridor was quiet. Oscar stood facing the library door, and stretched his ears to listen for any hint that someone moved within. Slowly, so as not to make a sound, he slid his pack from his shoulder and lowered it to rest against the wall. Freed of that burden, he leaned forward and pressed his ear against the thick wood, but could detect no whisper from beyond.

Gathering his courage, Oscar lifted his hand and balled his fist. It hovered there for a moment, trembling faintly, before he brought his knuckles down, twice in quick succession. He let his hand drop, and held his breath as he waited. A long moment passed, but there was no reply.

He knocked again, louder this time, and again he waited, but it was futile. There was a chance that Wamba was there and simply did not wish to be disturbed, but Oscar decided the risk of walking in on him uninvited was one he was prepared to take to know with certainty whether his search ended here or must continue elsewhere. Carefully, he pressed the latch and eased the door open, just far enough to poke his head around and look inside. His heart dropped at what he found, and he pushed the door open fully.

The library was dark and cold, motes of dust floating in the weak light from the window. The air was stale, without a hint of a recent fire. All signs indicated that no one had occupied this room for some time. The books rested quiet on their shelves, each in its proper place, and the desk was bare, but for the lonely scroll that waited on its surface.

Oscar crossed the room with slow steps and took it in his hand. He recognized it at once, but he opened it anyway, and found his own smudged and erratic letters staring back at him. As he had feared, the confession and explanation that he had written to Wamba had never reached him. Oscar wondered how hasty his departure must have been, that he had been gone before Emma could even deliver it. All this time, he had continued to believe that Oscar had betrayed him willingly.

Oscar tried to breathe through the crushing pain of that realization, and despaired at how badly the hurt he had inflicted had been compounded. He tucked the scroll into his belt, and wracked his brain to think where to turn next. He glanced into the bedchamber, just to be sure, but it too was long abandoned. 

He went in search of the first person he could think of that would be able to tell him where Wamba had gone. The garrison common room was boisterous as usual. Two young men in the king’s livery clasped hands and tried to pin one another’s arms across a small table, while their compatriots looked on. A group of older men played at dice, while many more polished helmets, inspected links of mail and sharpened swords. Oscar scanned their faces, but Farren was nowhere among them.

“You’re Oscar, aren’t you?” one of the dice players asked.

A sudden stillness fell over the room. Even the wrestlers paused in their contest as all eyes turned to Oscar. They shared something unnervingly knowing as they looked him over.

“Yes,” he said hesitantly, unsure what to make of the reaction. “Do you know where I can find Farren?”

“Might,” one of the younger soldiers said, “but we’ve orders not to tell you.”

“What?” Oscar gaped. “Why?”

“Just what he said.” The soldier shrugged. “You should know the why better than us.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back, at least?”

“Can’t tell you that either.”

“You’d best run along, boy,” the gambler said. “You’ll get no information from us.”

Mortified and resigned, Oscar did as he was told and left, though the visit had not been entirely in vain. He had learned, at the least, that Farren was gone and therefore likely to be with Wamba, and that they had taken steps to make sure that Oscar did not follow. Part of him thought it would be better to honor that, but the scroll that prodded his belly with each step was an urgent reminder why he could not accept defeat so easily. He realized that there was one more face that he had not seen among the soldiers, and turned his steps toward the training yard.

It was not in the yard, nor the stables, but in the armory that he finally found Dunstan. The young soldier sat with one leg to either side of a bench, his sleeves rolled up while he shaved a fresh stave with a long knife. A dozen or so neatly trimmed poles rested in a pile beside one foot, a handful of leafy branches at the other. He looked up at Oscar’s greeting, and grimaced.

“Oscar. You look as though you’ve been trampled by a horse.”

“Astonishing,” Oscar returned with a weak smile, “for that is exactly how I feel.”

“What have you been up to this past month? Emma frets about you constantly, but she won’t say why.”

Oscar decided he would have to find some way to thank Emma, once this mess was behind him. “She’s a good friend.”

“I take that to mean you aren’t going to tell me either.” Dunstan dropped his stave on top of the pile. It fell with a clatter, as he picked up another unpeeled branch.

“I can’t,” Oscar said, regretful, “but I need your help.”

“When did you not?” Dunstan snorted. “What sort of help?”

“I need you to tell me where Farren has gone.”

Dunstan’s knife stopped, wedged beneath a thick knot. He looked at Oscar, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Oscar. We have strict orders not to tell you. Me doubly so. The captain knows we’re friends. He warned me separately, and promises I’ll lose my post if I tell you.”

Oscar just stared at him, unable to think of a reply. His doubts were growing, smothering his determination to find Wamba. If Farren would go so far as to threaten his friends, perhaps there was no hope to be had. Perhaps no number of apologies could mend the damage he had done.

“Anything else, tell me and it is done,” Dunstan said, “but not that.”

“No,” Oscar croaked at last. “No, I couldn’t let you risk your post for me.”

Dunstan nodded. “We should train again soon. Neglect your practice, and you might not live to regret it.”

Oscar tried to smile, but he could not quite manage it. “Among all my regrets, that would not be the least.”

He let Dunstan return to his duties, and wandered out into the bailey. He stood there, at a loss for where to turn. A hunting dog bounded past his knees, chased by a dirty stable boy. Oscar watched them go. His pack was growing heavy on his shoulder, and with no better idea of what to do with himself, he returned to the keep. He would need to find a bed for the night, but that meant a trip to the steward’s office, but he could not stomach the interrogation he would need to face just yet.

He went instead to the archives, and found them empty. He dropped his pack beside his usual chair and fell heavily into its familiar embrace. He pulled the scroll from his belt and set it on the table before him. He stared at it, tapping his fingers on the arms of the chair, but it yielded no wisdom. He closed his eyes with a sigh, and leaned back to rest his head on the hard wood. He meant to think his problem over once more, but too many days and weeks of compounded exhaustion caught up with him at last, and he dozed off there in the chair.

“Oscar?” A familiar voice startled him awake. The room had grown shadowed, and Nicholas stood opposite him with a book in his hands, regarding him with a raised brow. “What are you doing here? It’s a touch early to be fleeing your marriage bed, is it not?”

“I’m not married,” Oscar said, and the relief of that truth afforded him a weary measure of warmth.

“Are you not?” Nicholas said, cocking his head curiously. “I was certain that today was to be the day.”

“Alice is not with child,” Oscar explained quietly. “She never was. She meant to trap me before I realized, but I discovered the truth this morning.” He hoped Nicholas would be satisfied with this brief explanation.

He watched Oscar for a moment his lips pursed. Then he shrugged. “Well, that was certainly a disaster narrowly averted. I imagine I shall be obliged to suffer further delays while you run off to chase Cedric down wherever it is he has hied off to.”

Oscar looked at the scroll again, but he still could not decide. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Nicholas echoed curiously. He sat down across from Oscar and placed his book on the table. He leaned forward on his elbows to stare at Oscar intently. “What doubt can there be?”

“I don’t know if he wants me to follow him,” Oscar said quietly. “He left instructions that I wasn’t to be told where he had gone.”

“He?” Nicholas asked. “Or those that would protect him?”

“I don’t know. After what I did…” Oscar swallowed down a rising lump. “I hurt him. Badly. He might want nothing more to do with me.”

“What utter nonsense.” Nicholas scoffed. “I must have misjudged the sincerity of your feelings for him. I thought you loved him.”

“I do,” Oscar whispered, “and it is because I love him that I would honor his wish to keep this distance between us.”

“No,” Nicholas said, and for the first time there was true disgust for Oscar in his expression. “Do not fool yourself that choosing not to go to him is some noble expression of love. It is rank cowardice, and nothing more. You fear that he will turn you away, that he will not forgive you. If you love him, you will go to him and take what comes, your own heart be damned.”

Oscar dropped his eyes, shamed to realize that Nicholas was correct. He had quailed at the first obstacle thrown before him, when there would be many more to overcome if he was to win Wamba back. 

“If that is the strength of your love, then it is no love at all,” Nicholas continued, low and fervent. “Love is laying yourself bare before another, opening your chest and removing your heart so that you may lay it at the feet of your beloved do with as he will. If you are lucky, he will shelter and keep it for you. If you are not…”

He trailed off, and Oscar finally looked at him. He was shocked at the fiery conviction in Nicholas’s eyes, and the pain that was so clearly at its root.

“What happened?” Oscar could not help but ask.

Nicholas sat back in his chair with a sigh. “I have told you that there is a certain type of man to be found often in the service of the church. If one is of a mind, it is fairly simple to find a bedmate, but such men do not form any lasting attachments. At most, you can steal a night here or there. Never more than that, and never for long. A release. Anything more is too dangerous. I lived by this rule, for most of my years in the monastery, and then the abbey. But there was one exception. He was much like me, the son of a minor noble cursed with an overabundance of sons. He was younger than I, and very beautiful, and I could not help falling in love with him. He had only just come to the church, and did not know any better. Young and foolish, we risked the wrath of the abbot for our affair, but it hardly seemed to matter at the time. He was my first and only love, and I thought that nothing could touch that. I was wrong.

“We took too little care to hide our liaisons. One of the other novitiates had watched our movements. He knew our hiding places. He told the abbot where to find us. There was no denying the proof he had witnessed with his own eyes. He had us confined, each alone. I do not know how long my lover was in his cell, or what transpired after. I only know that I was brought out, after a month, and there before all of them he denounced me. He swore before God that I had seduced him and led him down a path of sin. I called out to him, but whatever they had done to him had killed any affection he had for me. They returned me to my cell for another month of penance, and when they released me he was gone.”

“Nicholas,” Oscar said, stunned by the revelation but unable to leave the anguish in the archivist’s voice unanswered.

Nicholas shook himself, and sat up straighter in his chair, banishing the memory. He drew his arch demeanor about him like a cloak and held up one finger. “My lesson for you is this. Even after what he did, even after he threw me to them to save his own skin, even then I would have forgiven him had he but asked. Such was the love that I bore him. I would have weathered any trial for him, walked through fire to remain by his side. Perhaps he felt differently, or perhaps he was simply too scared to fight. Do not repeat his mistake.”

Oscar considered his words, letting his sadness and sympathy go, for he knew that Nicholas would appreciate neither. Instead, he met Nicholas’s expectant gaze squarely and said, “I won’t.”

“Good,” Nicholas said curtly, flipping open the book before him. “Then you surely have somewhere more important to be.”

“I do,” Oscar agreed. He stood, knowing exactly what he had to do. He stopped, just at the edge of the shelves, and looked back. “Nicholas.”

“Hm?” Nicholas responded, not looking up.

“Thank you.”

“Why are you still here?” was the archivist’s irritable reply, but Oscar saw the corner of his mouth turn up in the barest smile.

The doors of the great hall were closed, but the guards knew Oscar and let him pass without comment. There was a boisterous crowd of nobles gathered for the evening meal. The aromas wafting from the laden tables teased Oscar’s nose and caused his stomach to issue a piteous entreaty as he wove his way through the courtiers, but he had eyes only for the high table. There, King Richard sat with his queen to his right and a man Oscar recognized as a member of the royal council to his left.

The king was engaged in conversation with Agnes, the goblet in his hand swaying to illustrate some point. Oscar stopped just before the dais, and stood there, waiting for the king to take note of him. It was not King Richard, but the council member who first looked to Oscar. He raised a brow, and leaned in to murmur in the king’s ear.

King Richard’s eyes were on him an instant later, and his expression clouded. Oscar girded himself, and stood straight, waiting to be addressed.

“By what right do you enter my hall in such a presumptuous fashion?” the king demanded sternly.

“Your majesty,” Oscar said, with careful respect, “I would beg a word with you.”

“And you think I should interrupt my supper to grant it to you?”

“I am happy to wait, sire,” Oscar said, “if I may but have your assurance that an audience will be granted.”

“A proper audience, now, is it?” Richard said. "A moment ago it was but a word."

“A word, an audience, a stroll through the gardens, I care not which,” Oscar said, holding carefully to his temper.

“I tire of your presence already,” the king said coolly. “So we will be quick. Come.”

He rose, with a kiss to his lady’s knuckles and an apology, and strode from the hall into the audience chamber behind. Oscar scrambled after him. He closed the door behind them, and turned to face the king.

King Richard had stopped a few feet beyond the door, and glared at Oscar with undisguised disdain. “What is it you need so badly that you could not find it elsewhere, but have chosen to make yourself a nuisance in my great hall?”

“Sire, I have come to beg that you tell me where I can find Wamba.”

The king’s face darkened, the clouds turned thunderous. “I would have thought you had more sense than to say his name in my presence.”

“Sire?” Oscar said, thrown off guard.

“I did not think you could still surprise me,” the king said, “yet here we are.”

That was when Oscar realized, with a sinking heart, that he was about to receive yet another scolding. He braced himself, determined to weather this trial and all that followed after it.

“I knew you were lacking in scruples, but never did it occur to me that you might be so callous as to throw him away after you worked so hard to win him.” The king’s voice dropped to a forbidding rumble, his glare sharp as swords. “Yet you did, and I would flay you myself but that I know that would pain him most of all. Your selfishness and stupidity have cost me the voice of one of my most valued advisors. Tell me why I should reveal the sanctuary where he attempts to regain himself.”

Oscar bowed his head, unable to raise his gaze higher than the king’s boots in his shame. Every word was true, and deserved, and even as he writhed he marveled at the king’s skill to reduce him so completely with but a few choice words. Blinking away tears, Oscar did something he had never done before. He dropped to his knees and willingly humbled himself before the king.

“I know that I do not deserve him,” he said, “and I know that I have done nothing to merit your trust or your aid. But, sire, I will swear upon my life that if I can but have one more chance to make amends and prove myself worthy, I will cherish him to the end of my days. And if ever again I fail to keep that promise, I will offer my life willingly in recompense.”

He swallowed, not daring to look up at the silent king.

“Please, sire,” he begged, letting his tears fall as they would. “Please. I cannot live without him.”

There was a long silence, and Oscar began to despair that even this would not be enough. Then the king said, “You will find him at Coningsburgh.”

Oscar gasped, and looked up, amazed that his gambit had succeeded. “What is at Coningsburgh?”

“It appears there is yet much you have to learn of him.” The king’s face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “Crawl if you must, but fix what you have broken, and do not dare to address me again until you have.”

“I will, sire. I swear it.”

The king said no more, only swept past him into the hall, leaving Oscar alone on the cold floor. His mind raced, thinking on what he would need. A map, to find Coningsburgh and the fastest road there. A meal, and a bed, to recover his strength for the journey ahead. And the courage to face Wamba when he found him.


	64. Chapter 64

Devy tripped on the last step and stumbled down into the entryway, so fascinated by the dark figure standing there that she neglected to watch where she placed her feet. The guards eyed the stranger warily, shrouded as he was in a long cloak that hung heavy with rain. The hand he raised to push back his hood was thin and blue with cold. She noted this only in passing, for the face revealed was one that was burned into her memory, though it had been years since she had laid eyes on him. Devy’s hands flew to her mouth, too late to catch back her surprised exclamation.

Soaked and haggard as he was, Wamba offered her a faint smile. “Hello, Devy.”

He made no move to approach her, or enter further, simply stood looking as though he might collapse at any moment. She stepped forward and reached to strip away his drenched cloak, as it was visibly sapping his warmth and energy, but Wamba swayed ever so slightly away from her hands. She stepped back at once, confused by his reluctance to let her help him, but turned instead to issue a curt order to the maids peeking through the side door. The girls obeyed silently, and at once, awed by Devy’s familiarity with this mysterious visitor.

Devy turned back to try her luck at inviting Wamba into a warmer room, but his eyes were fixed above, now, for Lady Edith had appeared at the top of the stairs. She wore her usual stern expression, her hair bound in long twin braids down her back that Devy had woven for her.

“Wamba.” She said his name with no particular surprise.

Her visitor offered a deep if somewhat unsteady bow. “My lady. I pray you will forgive my untimely and unannounced arrival.”

Edith picked up her plain gray skirts in her hands and descended the stairs with calm steps, and all the dignity that Devy had failed to maintain. Stopping just before Wamba, she glanced behind and around him, and with arms folded across her body, asked, “You arrived alone?”

“No, my lady,” Wamba said, his eyes respectfully lowered. “The guard captain accompanied me. He has taken the liberty of entrusting our horses to your stable master.”

“So you are two?” Edith asked, her eyes studying his bedraggled form.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Oscar does not accompany you on this journey?” Edith asked. It was the question that itched on Devy’s tongue as well.

Wamba’s throat bobbed on a hard swallow. When he spoke, his voice had faded to a whisper. “No, my lady. Oscar has remained in London. To prepare for his wedding.”

Devy heard herself gasp. Edith betrayed no such surprise, but her arms opened at once, reaching out to Wamba.

“Oh, my child.” Wamba did not shy from her touch as he had from Devy’s. He let himself be drawn to her. He laid his damp head on her shoulder, and gave breath to a ragged sob. She held him tightly and gestured to the soldiers to clear the entry hall.

They obeyed the command at once, leaving to return to their posts on the gate, but another hand caught the door before it could close behind them, and an enormous cloaked man in the king’s livery stepped in from the storm.

He shook rain from his cloak, and looked about until his eyes fell on Wamba. He watched, expression grim, as Wamba made his unsteady way up the stairs guided by Edith. Then he looked to Devy, and a spark of recognition lit his eyes.

“Devy, isn’t it?” he said. “I don’t suppose you remember me. My name is Farren.”

“Of course I remember you.” Devy smiled. She could still recall clearly the feeling of those thick arms holding her steady on the neck of a horse, the rumble of the deep voice against her back. He was the first soldier whose face she had looked upon without fear. “You brought me here.”

“It has done you good, I see,” he said, and his eyes rose again to the stairs, though they were empty now. “I hope it can do the same for him.”

“What happened?” Devy asked, her curiosity a burning itch within her. “I thought all was well between them.”

“I believed the same,” Farren sighed. “I do not know the particulars. He has said hardly a word to me these past days, hardly a word to anyone, but to ask the king’s permission to travel here.”

“And Oscar is to be married?”

“So it would seem,” Farren grunted. He swung an arm out from beneath his cloak, revealing a wooden chest held in one hand. He proffered it to Devy. “He hasn’t shed a tear that I’ve seen. He’s got nearly a week’s worth of sorrow bottled up in him, and it won’t be pleasant when it breaks. See that he has a bath, will you? Put some of the white powder from the green jar in it. Leave the chest in his chamber.”

“Aren’t you going to stay?” Devy asked, taking the chest. She needed two arms to hold it.

“If he wanted me to see his pain, he would have shown it to me,” Farren said seriously. “He brought it here. I’ll not disrespect that. I’ll be in the garrison if he has need of me, and I won’t be leaving until he does.”

“Alright,” Devy said. “Thank you.”

Farren nodded to her and turned. A gust of cold wind blew in when he opened the door, making his cloak flap, then it slammed shut, and she was alone in the entryway with the chest in her arms. She hefted it into a firmer hold, and carefully made her way back up the stairs, mindful of where she placed her feet.

Nearly three years had passed since she had last seen Wamba. He was still Cedric to her then, a guest in her lord’s house to whom she was offered as entertainment. A strange man made even stranger by the way he refused to use her as she expected, instead gave her food to fill her hungry belly and surrendered to her the use of his warm bed and required no more of her. He spoke for her, and saved her from her lord’s wrath, and then finally took her away from the hell that had been her existence to give her a new home. She knew him only as her savior.

It was only after she was well settled in service to her lady that he became more than that. One day, many months into her new life, she asked Edith about him, and was told that his name was Wamba, and that he was a slave as she had been. She was shown a chest containing a great number of letters, and promised that after she learned to read she could learn all about her savior. It was another year before she was able to do so. The letters were one side of a conversation, a friendship between Wamba and the lady that had spanned a decade. Through them, and from Edith as well, she learned his history and his mind.

The first letter she ever wrote was to Wamba, to thank him for delivering her from Avery, and for permitting her to read the letters. His reply was as kind as she would have expected, expressing his hope that learning of his healing would give her faith in her own, and an offer to be a confidant for any secrets she might wish to share.

She was not ready, not then, but she thought that one day she might be. Her days were full and peaceful, serving Edith as her personal maid, learning from her in the quiet evenings. They enjoyed Wamba’s letters together now, the lady reading aloud while Devy practiced her knitting at her knee. It was less than a month since the last, and it held only happy tidings, and no hint that something might be amiss between Wamba and Oscar.

Devy caught two of the younger maids lurking about in the corridor outside Edith’s day chamber, no doubt trying to catch a whisper of whatever was being said within. Devy clucked her tongue and shooed them away, giving them orders to light the fire in the largest guest chamber and have the bath filled. Only once they were well away down the corridor did she quietly open the door to the lady’s sanctuary.

The loom stood on one side of the room, the shuttle dangling from the corner of a tapestry still taking shape. Not far beyond, the fire illuminated Edith, seated in her tall-backed chair. She was bent over her lap, where Wamba had buried his face to sob into her skirts. She combed her fingers through his wet hair, whispering softly to him words that Devy could not hear. He had not even managed to remove his cloak before he collapsed at her feet.

A throbbing pain woke in Devy’s chest, just beside her heart, aching to see him this way. Farren had been correct in his estimation. Whatever strength had allowed him to keep this storm inside of him all the long journey to Coningsburgh had cracked at his first sight of the lady. Devy knew well the effect Edith had, the compassion that lay beneath the stern countenance. She had spent many nights wetting her lady’s fine garments with her tears just as Wamba did now, and had never been chastised for it.

She set the chest down on the sideboard. The sound it made drew Edith’s attention to her, and the lady summoned her with a dip of her chin even as she continued to speak to Wamba. She reached down to undo the clasp at his throat as Devy approached. It parted, and the cloak fell loose. Devy caught it and carefully lifted it away, sliding it out from where it was caught under Wamba’s boots.

He hardly seemed to notice, too consumed by his grief, and only drew his legs closer to his body, huddling against the lady’s chair. His sobs had grown hoarse, throat raw with the effort of expelling his anguish. Edith hushed him with a soothing hand down his back, and looked to Devy again.

“Bring warm water. And wine.”

Devy took the chest with her as she left, and went to check that the guest chamber was prepared correctly, with a bowl and ewer, a pitcher and cup, a plate of bread and cheese, a healthy fire, and the steaming bath. She set the chest off to one side and retrieved the green bottle, adding the powder within to the bathwater as instructed. The pungent scent of it made her nose wrinkle, but she stirred it quickly with a hand.

That was when she noticed that there was no bath sheet. She ran to the kitchens, and sent one of the maids who had been charged with preparing the chamber to fetch a sheet and a fresh nightshirt from the laundry. Then she gathered water and wine on a tray and took them back to the lady’s day chamber.

By the time she returned, Wamba had composed himself enough to sit in the chair opposite Edith, speaking quietly. Devy went to set her tray down.

“A child?” Edith exclaimed.

Devy nearly dropped the tray in her shock. It rattled heavily as it landed on the sideboard. Edith looked up, but Wamba did not.

He stared at his hands, folded in his lap. “Yes. The girl’s father came to retrieve him.”

Devy poured out the wine with shaking hands, so overcome with anger at Oscar that she could hardly hold her pitcher steady. She took a cup to Edith first, then handed the second to Wamba, along with a wet cloth to clean his face.

He looked up for a moment, dark eyes rimmed in red meeting hers. “Thank you, Devy,” he rasped in his worn voice. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“I have never met the lad,” Edith said, “but from your account I thought him more honorable than that.”

“Alas, I have been able to tell you only what I know,” Wamba said, pressing the cloth to his tear-stained cheek. “Clearly, he had wider interests than I had imagined. My imagination begins to wonder if there were others. How many, how often.” He laughed, soft and bitter, and there was no amusement in it. “I was a fool to think that I could ever be enough.”

“I will not hear you lay the blame for this on yourself,” Edith said firmly. “You have done nothing worthy of reproach. It was not you who chose to betray your lover.”

Wamba let the hand holding the cloth fall to his side and looked into his wine, watching the way the firelight glinted on the blood red surface. “I never had any sole claim on him. I always knew it was only a matter of time before he found something better. I knew it would hurt. I just did not anticipate how much.”

“Enough of such talk,” Edith said, rising abruptly to take the cup from his hand and set it aside along with her own. “You are tired. We will speak of this in the morning, once you have had a chance to rest and are thinking more clearly.”

Wamba bowed his head. “Yes, my lady.”

“The guest chambers are prepared?” Edith asked Devy.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Come, then.”

Edith took Wamba’s arm and walked with him, while Devy led the way with his cloak in her arms. She stepped into the room and hung the cloak on the clothes frame. She looked about, but could not find the requested bath sheet or nightshirt. She went back into the corridor, just in time to see the young girl running up with the linens in her arms.

Devy took her burden from her, scolding her again for her tardiness, and sending her on her way. She turned back, just as Edith exited the chamber and closed the door behind her.

“I need to give him these,” Devy said.

Edith looked down at the linens, and reached out to press her hand beneath Devy’s, a thoughtful look on her face. “Will you attend him?”

Devy looked up at her sharply, with a quick stab of unreasoning panic, but the truth of the request was evident in the lady’s eyes. Devy silently chastised herself for thinking that Edith would ever suggest she offer herself for comfort. “It would mean much to him, I think, to have a show of your trust.”

She shifted the cloth in her hands, and nodded. “I will see him to bed.”

Her lady smiled at her with approval, and gave her hand a warm press. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, my lady.”

Despite her resolve, her heart began to beat heavy in her chest as she watched the lady depart. The door to guest chamber, just visible in the corner of her eye, seemed to loom toward her in the dimly lit corridor. The fear in her mind was shapeless, but it consumed her and held her frozen. Finally, in one great, desperate instant of resolve, she pushed the heavy wooden door inward, and stepped into the warm room beyond. The sight that met her eyes dispelled her terrors in a glance.

Wamba sat on a low cushioned stool, still fully clothed with his head in his hands. He shed no tears, this she could tell from his utter stillness, but simply held himself beneath the crushing weight of his hurt. The next moment, he raised his head and took note of her. He rose to take the bath sheet from her hands.

“Thank you.”

Devy kept hold of the cloth, and he paused. “I will attend you,” she said. “if you wish.”

In his surprise, Wamba lost his grip on the sheet between them. He hesitated, then met her eyes frankly. “I could not ask that of you.”

He did not say why, but Devy could see the understanding in his eyes. A wave of warm affection flooded her, and she laid a hand on Wamba’s cheek, and a soft kiss on the other. “How could I ever feel unsafe in your presence?”

He ducked his head, the faint beginnings of a smile on his lips, the first true smile she had seen that night, and Devy realized that Edith had been right. “Thank you, but I think I will manage well enough.”

“Alright,” Devy said. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes,” Wamba said. “You have made me feel very welcome, despite my inconsiderately late arrival.”

“You can send any of the servants to find me if you need anything,” Devy said. “There’s always someone about. Don’t be bothered about the hour.”

“Thank you, Devy.”

“Goodnight, then.”

Devy peeked into the room, just once, as she closed the door behind her. Wamba had not moved.


	65. Chapter 65

Farren slept like the dead that first night, after three long days on horseback and little rest between. He did not dream, or if he did he did not remember it. He woke suddenly at dawn, as his body was accustomed, and rose to see what duties the captain of the Coningsburgh guard would have for him. He did not know how long their sojourn here would last, and he would make no haste to leave before Wamba was ready, but he was never one to sit idle while there was work to be done. The days would pass more swiftly if he found some task for himself, something to distract him from worrying endlessly over his charge. Wamba was in good hands, and Farren would leave him to heal in whatever way he could.

The stone building attached to the barbican was more of a guard house than a garrison. There were no more than a dozen soldiers that Farren could count, and none of them of prime fighting age. Some of the grey-haired guards might have been battle hardened once, indeed some bore visible scars attesting to past skirmishes, but now they went about their slow patrols on creaking joints. The rest were little more than boys, their narrow bodies comically dwarfed by the draping mail and broad pauldrons they wore. The men of Coningsburgh were shepherds and brewers, not warriors.

The captain thanked him affably for his aid and invited him to take any watch that struck his fancy. The haphazard arrangement of the schedule was appalling to a lifelong soldier, but Farren decided against upbraiding the man for his undisciplined command of the castle guard. It would do him no good to embarrass the man, and he thought that perhaps there was little need. Coningsburgh enjoyed a long calm under its lady, untroubled by enemies at its borders or the bands of outlaws that were still common further to the east. The walls were stout and in good repair, as were the mill and the other outbuildings that Farren could observe from the battlements. The estate was well maintained and responsibly managed, by the hand of a competent woman who clearly cared for the welfare of her people. It was only at martial craft that it lacked. Without a lord or any noble knight to take squires and show its colors at tournament, Coningsburgh had faded into peaceful obscurity.

He visited the stables that afternoon to see that their horses were recovered from the hard journey. The stable stock was as thin as the guard. A single fine palfrey, fit for a lady to ride, kept company with a trio of stocky draft horses suited to pulling carts or plows. More than half of the stalls stood empty, so there was ample room to house two temporary tenants. Wamba’s gelding snorted a greeting to him, nodding his great head over the wall of his stall when he saw Farren approach. He seemed in good spirits, and smelled of warm oats, so he had clearly enjoyed some pampering. Farren gave his nose a pat, and looked to his own aging stallion. The beast was distracted, his eyes showing white and his upper lip curled to bare his long teeth. A white foam dripped from the soft corners of his mouth, and from the way he arched his neck into the stall beside him, it was clear what had caused his agitation.

“That mare’s in season,” Farren remarked to the stable master.

“That old girl?” the hunched man blinked through bushy brows at the palfrey. “No sign of it. She’s sweet as ever.”

“Might be he just worked himself into a froth at the sight of such a fine lady,” Farren said, rubbing a hand down the straining tendons of the horse’s neck. “Do you have a pasture where he can run this off? It’s warm enough for him to pass the night outdoors.”

“Right you are,” the stable master agreed. “Best get him away before he starts kicking down the walls.”

It took both of them to wrestle the stallion from the stable, while he lunged and pulled at his harness, screaming to return. Farren narrowly avoided a particularly vicious kick aimed at his head, and dragged the horse through the gate by brute force, hooves skidding on the pebbled ground. Once he was let loose in the broad hayfield beyond the brewery, however, he seemed to have a change of heart. He bounded joyfully through the grass, and dropped to roll like a foal with his legs flailing about the air.

“Seems the air here agrees with him,” the stable master said. “I’ll send one of the boys after him to make sure he’s tethered before dark.”

Farren thanked him, and returned to the keep to see about taking another watch, selecting a post atop the gate. He looked to the main door of the keep each time he passed it, wondering how Wamba fared, but it did not open, and so he resigned himself to wait for word. Supper was ferried into the guard house by the kitchen girls that evening, a hearty stew of mutton and turnips, with tall flagons of the rich, clear ale produced by the brewery. The people of Coningsburgh were evidently quite proud of the quality of their product, and pleased with Farren’s appreciation of it. It was better than the ales served in most of the taverns of London, and Farren told them so.

At their urging, he indulged in a second flagon, and kept surprisingly merry company until late into the evening. He was contemplating seeking his cot, anticipating another dreamless sleep to take him through to morning, when a skinny youth with patches of wispy whiskers dotting his face approached and gave him an awkward salute.

“Captain, sir.” They had taken to calling him by his title, and Farren had given up correcting them.

“What is it, lad?”

“Your man, sir,” the boy said hesitantly.

Farren immediately sat up straight, a prickle of warning on the back of his neck. “Magistrate,” he said sternly.

“Magistrate,” the boy dutifully corrected himself. “He’s up on the battlements, sir.”

The jolt of alarm that flew through Farren that time swept away the warm fog of the ale. “Where?”

“Just above the gate, sir. I thought you would want to know,” the boy said, his eyes wide and timid in the face of Farren’s intensity.

“Of course,” Farren said, forcing himself to take a calming breath. “You did well.”

The boy grinned, but Farren did not stay to hear his reply. He leapt to his feet, and snatched up his cloak as he swept out the door into the cool night. It was late, the stars bright in the sky. A single torch burned atop the gate, but nothing else moved there that Farren’s eyes could see. His steps sped of their own accord, carrying him up the stairs three at a time. He did not stop until he rounded the corner, and was greeted by an empty parapet.

Farren’s heart shuddered within him, as he contemplated the worst. He took a single halting step toward the outer wall, steeling himself for what he might find, but before he could look, a flash of movement caught his eye. He turned, and there in the shadowed curve of the pinnacle, seated on a low stone ledge, he found Wamba.

Farren could just make out his shape in the darkness, the reflection of the torch in his eyes. Farren’s breathed a sigh of relief, and crossed the parapet to take a seat beside him. Wamba did not look at him, gazing out into the distance far beyond the walls, over the black sea of the trees.

“So I have disturbed your rest as well as my own,” he said quietly. “I must apologize for that, as well as for the way I have treated you these past days.”

“It was no trouble,” Farren assured him, pitching his voice low to match Wamba’s.

Wamba huffed, something that in happier days Farren might have called a laugh. “You are an uncommonly good friend. I have done nothing but cause you trouble since the day we met. Now I’ve taken you from your family as well.” His voice fell to a whisper, and his eyes dropped to the stones at his feet. “I’m sorry, Farren. Sorry that I’m such a burden.”

Farren reached out, to drape his cloak over Wamba’s shoulders. “Never think I am anything but grateful to have known you. It is a privilege to have your trust.”

Wamba said nothing. His features were growing clearer now, as Farren’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the shadow in which they both sat. His face was lined with exhaustion, his eyes haunted.

“Have you been able to sleep?”

“A little,” Wamba nodded. “Last night. The lady refused to speak to me until I had.”

Farren silently lauded the wisdom of that. “And today?”

“Today we have spoken at length. I told her all that I know. She insists that I must not take the blame for Oscar’s actions on myself.”

There was a moment of hesitation, just before he said the boy’s name, that made Farren’s hands clench so tightly his knuckles cracked. “And what did you say to her?”

“I say that blame has no part of it. He deserves better than I can give him. I knew it from the start. Now he has realized it. It was only my own selfish hope that allowed me to believe it might be otherwise."

He did not seem to be aware that he had begun to weep. His permeating sadness welled up in a slow stream of tears, catching the light from the fire as they fell from distant eyes. Farren had seen this look before, after Lord Cedric died. This grief was alike, and yet not at all, for Cedric had not chosen to leave Wamba. Had, in fact, looking at nothing but Wamba as he breathed his last. In that brief time after he passed, there were moments when Farren honestly worried that Wamba would follow him. That fear returned in force now, for then at least Wamba had all of Rotherwood around him, sharing his sorrow. He had his commitment to his duty, his loyalty to Wilfred, to give him purpose. Now he was adrift, with precious little to hold him to the world if he had a mind to abandon it.

When Farren did not speak, Wamba reached up to scrub at his cheeks, coughing an embarrassed laugh. “But enough wallowing. I should go back to London. It was a mistake to come here. I am not yet so worthless that I cannot fulfill my obligation to the king.”

“The king has said you aren’t to return until midsummer.”

“And by then, I will be unneeded in the tribunal as well.” Wamba looked at his hands, one thumb brushing over the silver ring he still wore, though it was only a memento now. “Do you think Wilfred would have me back if I asked politely?”

“You would not even need to ask,” Farren told him.

Wamba stared at the ring for a quiet moment. Then, in a whisper, “I miss him.”

Farren did not know whether it was Cedric of whom he spoke, or Oscar, so he said nothing.

“Ah, well,” Wamba said. “Perhaps he would have grown tired of me as well. Perhaps his death was a mercy, that I did not have to see him send me away.”

“Why would he ever do such a thing?” Farren asked. “After all he did to reclaim you?”

“Surely he would not have tolerated my clinging to him for much longer. Eventually he would have expected me to become a man.” Wamba fisted a handful of his hair in a frustrated grip, tugging at it. “Instead, here I sit, no man at all. What sort of man wants to submit to another?”

Farren fell still as he realized what he meant, stunned that Wamba would trust him with such a private doubt. He paused to consider his next words very carefully, and decided that the truth would serve better than any platitude. “Do not punish yourself for what you cannot change. It is not so unusual as you might think. In army camps and on long trails, men seek comfort and find it in one another.”

"That is expedience, surely," Wamba said. “They take comfort where they can while they wait to return to wives and sweethearts.”

“Some of them,” Farren conceded. “Not all. I know men who forged lifelong bonds in battle together, and carried that with them back home, and none would call them less than true men. Nor would I let any man declare you such.”

“It were no battle that made me what I am,” Wamba sighed, letting his hand drop to his lap once more.

“Battles come in many forms. That you did not don armor or wield a sword does not mean you did not fight bravely. It does not mean you cannot claim victory.” Farren took a gentle hold of his thin shoulder, and said firmly, “You won those battles. You will win this one as well.”

Wamba’s smile was frail, but honest. He clasped his hand over Farren’s on his shoulder. “You ever had more faith in me than was reasonable.”

“You have never betrayed my faith,” Farren told him simply.

Wamba’s hand slid from his, and he visibly gathered himself, heaving a breath. “I suppose if I am exiled here, I should find a use for myself.”

“Spend your days as you will,” Farren told him. “Worry not for London. Your post will be waiting for you when you choose to return.”

“Thank you, Farren,” Wamba murmured. He pushed himself up, and swung Farren’s cloak from his body to hand it back. His heartache hung on him like a pall, but there was a faint glimmer of determination in his eyes that had not been there before.

Farren nodded, and watched him go, one hand outstretched to guide him on the dark stairs. Already too much pain had been heaped upon those shoulders, and even the strongest will would eventually break. Wamba had survived the wound of Cedric's loss, but only time would tell whether Oscar's blow would prove fatal.


	66. Chapter 66

Oscar set out at dawn, beneath an ominous sky. Some might have seen it as a portent of the outcome of his journey, but he refused to accept any such omen, and firmed his resolve. He carried with him only that which he would need. His small satchel held a few pieces of spare clothing, beneath which he had buried his purse and the precious scroll he went to deliver. A short, sharp dirk lent by Dunstan hung from his belt, and a sack of food Emma had pilfered for him from the storerooms was slung over his shoulder. In his hand, he clutched a hastily scrawled map produced with Nicholas’s help to that ensure he did not forget the way.

He did not have sufficient means to pay for a horse, so he set out on foot. He kept a brisk pace through the morning, eager to see London grow small behind him, but by the afternoon his energy was flagging, and he realized that he must spend his strength more judiciously if he was to ever arrive at Coningsburgh. He measured his steps, and was disappointed to find, as the sun sank out of sight below the horizon, that his feet had carried him no further than Luton. He reached the main street as dusky shadows began to fall, walking past three separate mills and the invitingly lit windows of an inn. He wavered, but decided to preserve his coin, and continued on into the fields north of the town.

There, Oscar found a copse of slender silver birch beside the placid river that turned the millwheels of Luton. He refilled his water skin, then settled at the base of one of the trees. By the last of the light, he ate some of the hearty bread and sausage in his pack, washing it down with fresh, cool water. He slept there that night, huddled in his cloak with his dirk clutched in one hand and his head pillowed on his satchel to deter any opportunistic thieves who might come upon him in the night.

He woke unscathed, but for the ache in his neck from the awkward pose, and rose with the sun to continue on his journey. The fields began to blend together after a while, an endless world of freshly tilled earth and drab peasants planting it, and in some moments Oscar doubted he was moving at all. It occurred to him that this might well be his hell, to walk and walk forever and grow no closer to Wamba. Late that morning, the relentlessly lowering sky finally delivered on its threat, tossing down rain in driving sheets. He saw it coming across the open plain, and just managed to take shelter beneath the eaves of a nearby barn before worst of it reached him. With it came a furious wind that blew stinging arrows of rain into Oscar’s sanctuary to blind him and whipped his cloak about his body.

He shielded his face in his hood, and tried very hard not to let this new hindrance sap the last of his resolve. Perhaps there was little use to fighting when all the world seemed allied to stand in his way. He sighed, and flopped down in a pile of straw, only to yelp and stand again when the hilt of the dirk jabbed him sharply in the ribs. He cursed, and adjusted it on his belt, but even as he did the realization of what it meant, of all he had momentarily forgotten, came upon him. He was not alone against the world. His friends were with him, had sent him off with words of encouragement, assured of his success. The king himself had forbidden Oscar to fail.

A rumble of thunder rolled across the fields, and roused in Oscar memories of another storm, and sweet promises shared that he had never had the chance to honor. It was not the execution of some tedious errand that lay before him, but the chance to win back all that had nearly been taken from him, a purpose to which no other could compare. That thought bolstered his resolve, and he set out again as soon as the rain had calmed. He was fighting his way along the muddy road when the creak of wheels and the soggy thud of hooves alerted him to the cart approaching behind him.

Oscar stepped aside to let it pass, standing in the scrubby weeds at the edge of the road. The driver saw him there, and slowly pulled his mud-spattered team to a halt. He looked down at Oscar with his gray-streaked beard protruding from his hood.

“Where are you bound, lad?”

“North,” Oscar told him.

“No village called North that I’ve ever heard of,” the man retorted with a snort.

Grudgingly amused, Oscar nodded an apology. “My destination is far from here. Nearly as far as York.”

“York, is it?” The driver hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll not be going there, but I’ll take you as far as Woburn if you like. That’ll save you a bit of walking.”

So Oscar rode, wedged in amongst rocking barrels of wine along the bumpy track the rest of the way to Woburn. His aching feet were unspeakably grateful for the reprieve, and he gave the driver a penny for his trouble and the horses each a pat for their forbearance before he bid them farewell.

Slowly and determinedly, Oscar made his way north, sometimes catching a ride on a passing cart, but more often on foot. It took him five days to reach Nottingham, by which time his food had run out. He remembered the inn from his prior visit, and the quality of its food, so he spent his next to last coin on a hot meal and a cup of good ale there. The last he saved to buy new provisions of bread and hard cheese that he hoped would be enough to see him the rest of the way. Thus prepared, he set out again to find some appropriate shelter for the night.

It was only once he had passed beyond the most distant houses that he realized he had been followed. A scuffle and crunch of footsteps on gravel made him stop, his hand going instinctively to his weapon. His pursuer fell silent behind him. They remained frozen for a moment, Oscar listening hard for any hint of which way he should turn to thwart the coming attack.

“Hand over your purse,” a voice demanded. Something pressed to Oscar’s ribs, sharp even through his cloak. He whirled, unsheathing the dirk and using it to knock his attacker’s weapon aside.

He was startled to see a stick go flying from the hand of a freckled youth, who gaped at him in equal astonishment.

“What do you want?” Oscar demanded, pointing the blade in the boy’s face.

A heavy weight slammed into him from behind, and a pair of scrawny arms wrapped tightly about his neck. Oscar choked, the weight bending his spine backward. He slashed at the assailant, scoring a hit that evinced a high-pitched squeal. The weight fell away, but the first boy had been able to snatch Oscar’s sack from his shoulder in the struggle. He danced back with a cold grin, and wagged it at Oscar mockingly before he turned and darted back toward Nottingham town. The second boy shoved past Oscar, a dark-haired streak grasping his injured arm.

“Stop!” Oscar shouted, as he gave chase. They fled between the houses, darting into an alley. Oscar pelted after them, and rounded the corner, only to be greeted by an empty street. He peered about in the deepening gloom, but there was no sign of their trail, no blood from the wounded boy and no footprints that he could distinguish. They had vanished, as familiar with their streets as he had once been.

Oscar stood for a minute, his hand clenching tight on the hilt of his dirk, but there was nothing to be done. With a disgusted sigh, Oscar sheathed the weapon and turned back the way he had come. His hands closed protectively about the strap of his satchel, still slung securely across his body beneath his cloak. It was only his food and water skin that the little thieves had been able to snatch. His map and his scroll were still safe in his possession. That was the most important thing.

He found a dry ditch to shelter in for the night, but he did not dare sleep lest the audacious pair come to finish what they had begun. He waited, blinking in the faint light of the stars, until the first rays of dawn made the road safe to travel. He checked his map to be sure of the way, and continued on, past the northern road that would have taken him to the Greenwood, following the western path that would skirt the forest and arrive, he hoped, at Coningsburgh.

His legs ached so badly that he felt them only as distant echoes below his knees, as long as he kept walking. When he stopped to rest, it was only worse, as they reminded him of how badly he had mistreated them. They throbbed to the beat of his heart and stiffened rapidly within his battered boots, and he was forced to rise again and hobble on for fear of what would happen if he let them cool too long. His stomach was an angry knot within him, empty but for the water he gulped down each time he passed a stream. These were few and far between, and none deep enough to even soak his feet, much less submerge any other part of his exhausted body. He sucked down what refreshment he could scoop into his hands, and soldiered doggedly on.

Oscar was filthy and exhausted, and sure he was seeing illusions conjured by his delirious mind, when on the eighth day out from London, the third since his last meal, a castle of elegant white stone appeared on the horizon. Perched atop a low hill, it glowed like a beacon in the sun, with the verdant finery of the forest nestled snug about its feet and rich meadows speckled with sheep a lush carpet winding through the trees. The sight of it imparted new strength to Oscar’s limbs. He lurched into a stumbling lope, desperate to close the last distance to his goal without delay.

The climb to the gate was more arduous than he anticipated. By the time the wooden portal stood before him, he was panting like a hound after a chase, sweat pouring down his back. He stood on shaking legs and looked up to the parapet, where a young man in mail and a strange livery peered down at him curiously.

“Is this Coningsburgh?” Oscar called, his voice rusty after so little use.

“It is,” the youth called back. “Who are you?”

The relief that washed over Oscar nearly knocked him from his feet. He heaved an exhausted laugh and smiled up at the boy. “I’m looking for...” Oscar blinked as a new face appeared beside the young guard. “Farren!”

Farren’s scowl was deadlier than any sword. “Oscar. What are you doing here?”

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Oscar said, swaying slightly. “I need to see him.”

“Stay there,” Farren growled. “Don’t approach the gate.”

He disappeared, and while the young guard continued to stare down at Oscar in blatant curiosity, Oscar knew that he would be of no help. He pulled off his cloak, and tried to stand straight while he waited for the gate to open, but long minutes passed and it became clear that he would not be admitted so swiftly.

He staggered instead toward the trees, and dropped his cloak on the ground at the foot of a leafy oak. He slumped down atop it. He dragged his foot, that which was the source of the most torturous aches, laboriously toward him to inspect it. He was not surprised to discover that his long walk had worn the sole through completely. Bits of frayed wool poked out, and a few dark pebbles had embedded their sharp edges in his flesh. He picked at them gingerly, drawing them out one by one as he waited.

He had finished with one boot and moved on to the other, thankfully more whole, when a bang and screech of metal from the gate sent him scrambling to his feet. His heart leapt into a gallop, imagining who might appear, but it was Farren who emerged, alone. His face was fixed in a stony mask as he regarded Oscar.

“Farren, where is he?” Oscar asked. “Did you tell him I’m here?”

Farren said nothing, simply glowered and breathed out very slowly through his nose.

“Farren?” Oscar tried again. “Please say something.”

“I am trying very hard not to kill you right now.”

Oscar’s guts clenched queasily at the declaration. He did not know how he had forgotten that there were more barriers between him and Wamba than mere miles. His elation at finally reaching Coningsburgh had caused him to forget his caution.

“I know I have much to atone for,” he said quietly, dropping his eyes. “I’m prepared to do so. Please, can’t I talk to him?”

“How did you get here?” Farren ignored Oscar’s question to throw his own query, crossing his arms over his massive chest.

“I walked,” Oscar said stupidly, wondering if that fact was not obvious.

Farren’s scowl deepened. “Don’t be daft, boy. Who told you where to find him?”

“It wasn’t Dunstan,” Oscar said quickly, waving both hands. “He didn’t disobey your orders. He refused to tell me. All of the soldiers did.”

“Then how is it you came to be here?”

“I went to the king.”

“The king?” Farren echoed, clearly taken aback. “He told you about Coningsburgh?”

“He did,” Oscar nodded. “He charged me to fix what I had broken. I’ve come to do that.”

Farren snorted. “You might have convinced the king, but you’ll have to do more than that if you want to see him. Lady Edith has decided that you are not to be admitted to the keep.”

“Lady Edith?” Oscar asked. “Is she the lord’s wife?” He should have taken the time to check the records for the Coningsburgh estate more carefully before he departed London, but his urgency to be on his way had caused him to overlook this suddenly very significant detail.

“There is no lord here,” Farren rumbled. “Only the lady, and it is she who will decide when you may speak to him, if she indeed grants you that boon at all.”

“What about him?” Oscar cried. “Does he want to see me? Does he even know I’m here?”

“He has been told. That is all I can say.”

“Farren, please” Oscar tried again, humiliated by the tinge of desperation that colored his voice. Tears burned behind his eyes, but he fought them back. “I need to see him.”

“I have done what I can,” Farren said, unmoved by Oscar’s pain. “You may wait, but for now you cannot enter.”

He turned his back on Oscar, and returned inside the castle walls. The gate closed behind him with a terrifyingly final crash.

Defeated, Oscar slumped back down onto his cloak and pulled his knees up close to his chest. He did not know what to do. He had no food, and no way to purchase any. He had spent every resource he had on this journey, his coin and his strength and the charity of his friends. If further sacrifice was required of him, then he had only his time left to give, and give it he would. He crossed his arms atop his knees and rested his head on them, intending only to hide his frustrated tears from the guards that might come for a peek at him. Instead, the moment he had stopped moving, he fell into an exhausted doze.

It was the creak of the gate that roused him, some unknown span of time later. A patter of quick feet approached, much too light to be Farren, and Oscar struggled to lift his heavy head to see who had come. It was a young girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, in a simple green shift and a gray apron. She carried a tray in her hands. Her eyes matched her dress, and a profusion of copper curls was caught up in a kerchief. For a startled moment, he thought it was Cara, as he had known her in younger days, but as she drew near it became clear that the girl’s features were much softer than Cara’s.

There was something familiar about her, nonetheless. He blinked groggily, trying to place her. “I know you.”

“You do,” she agreed coldly, “though it has been nearly three years since we last met.”

Oscar cast back into his memory, trying to recall what had happened three years ago. It came to him, and he gasped. “Avery. You’re the girl who left with us.”

“Devy.”

“Devy,” Oscar nodded. “What are you doing here?”

She bent down to drop her burden beside him, tugging on a linen cloth covering a straw basket and rearranging it to drape over the mouth of the carafe there as well. Straightening, she regarded him coolly from above. “This is my home.”

“Your home?” Oscar asked, baffled by this strange turn. He had never bothered to consider where she had gone, too concerned with freeing Wamba from the malaise that had engulfed him during those days.

“Wamba sent me here. He asked the lady to take me in.”

Oscar could not help his weary laugh. Of course Wamba had done this for her, found her a home with someone he trusted. Someone so important to him that he had kept her very existence a secret from Oscar. He would not blame Wamba for that, not after the damage his own poisonous secrets had done.

Devy huffed a peeved breath, and turned away from his stare, her task complete with the delivery of the tray. The sight of her retreating back shook Oscar from his shock, and spurred him to action.

“Wait!” Oscar scrambled for his satchel and quested inside it, past the soiled clothes, the empty purse and the crushed map. His grasping fingers closed about the curved shape of the scroll, and he pulled it out with a shout. He brandished it at Devy. “Here! Please, will you take this to him?”

Devy regarded the scroll suspiciously, and her hands remained by her sides. “What is it?”

“It’s an explanation,” Oscar said. Seeing her darkening scowl, he hastened to add, “Not an excuse! Not any excuse for what I did. Just the true story of what happened. I never had a chance to tell him.”

He stretched his hand further, shaking the scroll. She looked doubtfully between it and his face.

“Please,” Oscar said, and was ashamed when tears rose again. “Please, won’t you see he gets it? I won’t ask anything more, I swear it.”

Finally, hesitantly, Devy reached out and took the scroll. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Oscar gasped, laughing with relief though his cheeks were wet. He bowed his head to her. “Thank you.”

A moment later she was gone, and he finally gave a thought to the tray she had brought. He pulled the cloth from the basket to discover three beautiful, golden pies. Their warm, spicy aroma made his nose twitch, and his empty belly grumble. He knew he should go slowly, or risk making himself ill, but three days without food had left him ravenous. He lofted a prayer of thanks to whoever had sent him this, and fell on the food like a rabid wolf. He tore into the first pie and swallowed it down in three desperate bites. The second was in his hand before he had even swallowed the whole of the first. It, too, was gobbled down.

His stomach heaved, threatening to cramp, so Oscar stopped and waited, looking to the carafe instead. It held a clear, delicious ale that he forced himself to sip sparingly until he was certain of his body. He did not know how long he must wait, so he wrapped the last precious pie in the cloth and set it aside.

Then he waited.

Hours passed, and several people approached and were granted admittance to the castle, while several more left. Some looked at him askance, some with concern, but Oscar paid them no mind, settling into his vigil. He took a mouthful of ale now and then, and kneaded at the cramping muscles of his legs, cursing them as they continued to twitch and tighten. He remained, even as his hope began to wane as the shadows grew long and dusk fell.

By the time it was full dark, Oscar was unable to deny his exhaustion any further. He longed desperately for the warmth of a fire, the comfort of a bath. More than anything, he longed for Wamba, for his love and his forgiveness. It seemed none of these things was to be had this day. He curled himself in his cloak and settled in to the curve of the oak’s roots, wondering how much further penance would be required of him, or if no number of apologies would suffice.

He shivered, and tried not to weep, but just as before he could not even master his own body. He chastised himself for his quailing heart, and pulled his cloak tighter to him. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep that way.

Then the flash of a torch, blinding in the darkness. Hands were on him, but he was too tired to fight them, so he decided to let them take what little he had left. They did not rob him. Instead, there came a sense of motion, of his stumbling feet failing to keep up with those that led. They caught him, and guided him safely to lay him down in a soft place.

There was a familiar voice there, one that evoked a soul-deep comfort in him, a childlike trust. He tried to rouse himself, to snatch at foggy thoughts of something important that he must do, but a gentle touch soothed him, the welcome warmth of a blanket settled over him, and that voice charged him to rest.

Trusting, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir Walter Scott’s Coningsburgh was inspired by a real castle. You can see a picture of Conisbrough [here](http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/content/properties/conisbrough-castle/2250199/conisbrough-aerial).


	67. Chapter 67

Sharp pain woke Oscar. It lanced through his calf as the muscle writhed unnaturally, a hot coal burning deep within. His eyes popped open and he flew up, throwing aside the blanket that covered him to seize the mutinous limb between both hands. He hissed through his teeth and dug the tips of his fingers into the cramped muscle to knead the pain forcefully away.

After a stubbornly long spasm, it finally loosened, and he was able to stretch his leg out straight. He let out a slow sigh and looked curiously about the unfamiliar chamber around him. It was large and well-lit, the white stone walls draped with richly hued tapestries, framing wide windows of leaded glass. A tall, canopied bed rested empty against one wall, but Oscar himself had been laid on a plump pallet on the floor. He ran a hand over it, pressing down to test the give. It was much too soft to be stuffed with straw, and a night on it had relieved the worst of the ache in his back. He turned to look behind him, and immediately jumped, startled to discover that he was not alone.

A vast hearth spanned nearly the whole length of the wall, and a servant knelt before it with his back to Oscar. He wore a soiled linen smock, and his unkempt hair was bound up in a ragged knot at the back of his head. He quietly pushed a fresh log into the grate, turning it carefully so that it would take the flame from the wood already burning.

Oscar shook himself free of the blanket and turned to face the fire, sitting on the pallet with legs crossed. He noted his boots and neatly folded cloak laid out beside him. He cleared his throat and asked, “Where am I?”

The servant froze, his hand poised in the air. Then he sat back on his heels, and his shoulders bowed. “This is Coningsburgh. Don’t you remember?”

Oscar’s heart stopped, his lungs seized, at the first sound of that voice. Even rough and wasted, he could never have mistaken it. He watched in growing panic as the man turned, and Oscar’s eyes confirmed what his ears already knew.

Wamba seemed to have aged a decade in the month since they had parted. Or perhaps, Oscar thought, it was more accurate to say that he had returned to the man he had been when they first met. The light was gone from his face, and the laughter. Stains painted the hollows beneath his eyes and the corners of his mouth were tight. A dusting of pale whiskers was scattered on his sharp jaw. Worst of all was the emptiness of the look he turned on Oscar.

Oscar had thought long about what he would say to Wamba when he finally had the chance. Instead, his carefully prepared words were flown, chased off like so many gulls by the rushing waves of sorrow. He could only stare, and wish that he still had the right to reach out, to offer care and rest.

When he said nothing, Wamba turned his face away. “I trust you slept well,” he said, flat and polite.

“Yes,” Oscar croaked, still stupid with shock. “Thank you.”

Wamba nodded once, his jaw tightening. “You may stay here and rest as long as you like. There’s more wood for the fire, and Devy will be up with food.” He stood in one fluid motion and brushed off his knees, giving every appearance of preparing to leave. Oscar scrambled for something to say that would make him stay.

“What is this room?”

Wamba crossed his arms over his belly, his eyes on the stones of the hearth. It drew his smock tight across the sharp wings of his shoulders, bared the stark bones of his wrists, and Oscar ached for how terribly he was diminished. “My chamber. That which has been lent to me.”

Oscar swallowed, a fragile hope uncurling at the thought that Wamba had wanted to keep him near. “You told them to bring me in.”

“The lady was of a mind to let you sleep outdoors, but after I read your note,” Wamba shrugged one shoulder, “I asked her to reconsider. There are wolves in these woods still.”

Oscar shuddered, to think what fate could have befallen him if he had met true predators on his way and not only hungry street urchins. Then he noticed the scroll that rested on the sideboard beside a silver ewer, half uncurled. His heart began to pound.

“You read it?”

“I did.”

Oscar did not know what to say, unsure how to ask if his words had won him any forgiveness. The silence between them stretched on, broken only by the clatter and hiss of the logs in the grate as they settled.

Then Wamba asked, in a hoarse whisper, “Is it true?”

It tore at Oscar’s heart, to know that he had broken the trust between them so badly that Wamba had cause to doubt his word. Oscar climbed off the pallet to kneel instead on the cold stones at Wamba’s feet, looking up at him and trying to catch his eye. “Every word. Every word is true, I swear it.”

“Then why…” Wamba’s brow furrowed, and he still did not look at Oscar. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

It was the question he had been dreading. “You had only just returned, and you had concerns of your own. I did not think it fair to bother you with mine.” Even as he said the words, however, he realized that they were untrue. They were the lie he had told himself to assuage the guilt he carried for his cowardly secrecy.

“I did not realize you thought that of me.” Wamba’s expression was injured now, the first hint of true emotion he had betrayed in the dip of his brows. “I think I could have been of help to you. I would have tried.”

Oscar bowed his head and closed his eyes, too late to stop the tears that forced their way free to crawl down his cheeks. He cursed himself again for a worthless heel, that he would make Wamba believe that he had failed somehow as a friend or as a lover. Wamba had given him everything he could, everything he was, because he knew no other way, and Oscar had repaid him with deception, keeping secrets long before his final betrayal. At the very least, Wamba deserved the truth from him, and the truth was much more plain than any of his carefully crafted excuses.

“I was ashamed,” he confessed. “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I was ashamed of what I did, and I was afraid you would hate me. I thought I could pretend it had never happened.”

“Why would I hate you for what another did to you?” Wamba’s shadowed eyes turned to Oscar at last, his frown deepening. “Do you think I, of all people, would place the blame for such a crime on its victim?”

A rush of hot shame flooded Oscar’s cheeks. “It wasn’t as though she forced herself on me."

“That is precisely what she did,” Wamba said, staring at Oscar with the penetrating look that was so often turned on witnesses in the tribunal. “Unless what you have written is not true?”

Oscar quickly shook his head, forcing himself to meet that gaze squarely. “It is true. I swear it.”

“Then there is no doubt. That she is a woman makes little difference. She could not compel you by force, so she drugged you instead, after you rejected her advances.”

Oscar had not thought of it in those terms. It was hard to admit that his downfall had come not at the hands of any man, someone more powerful than he, but the diminutive Alice and her devious ways. If he had heeded the advice of wise friends earlier, he could have avoided this fate altogether. He would not make the same mistake now. Wamba’s sight was clearer on this, so Oscar chose to trust his word. It brought a new rush of stinging tears to his eyes. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am sorry for that, Oscar,” Wamba said, gentle but with cold stone beneath. “Sorrier than I can say. But did you come here just to tell me this?”

“No.” Oscar knelt up, and reached for Wamba’s hand, daring to take it in his own. Thin fingers lay limp in his grasp, traces of dirt beneath Wamba’s short nails and etched in the lines of his knuckles. Oscar wondered absently what he had been doing to put it there. “I came to tell you how sorry I am for how I deceived you, and to beg your forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve you. But I need you. Please. Even if you can never forgive me, if we can never be more than friends. Even then, let me be near you.”

Wamba closed his eyes, his throat bobbing on a heavy swallow. He pulled his hand from Oscar’s grasp. “I do not see how that can be. You cannot deny your child.”

Oscar frowned, intensely confused for a heartbeat, until he realized that Wamba did not know. The most important part of what Oscar had come to tell him was not in the letter. “There is no child.”

“No child?” Wamba echoed, blinking at Oscar.

“No,” Oscar said, with a violent shake of his head. “She lied, to force me to marry her. I learned of it the very day we were to be married.”

Wamba’s took a sharp breath. “You did not marry?”

“No. It was very close, but we were not married.” It chilled his blood still, to think how close he had come to consigning the rest of his life to Alice. He shook the thought away, watching the realization pass across Wamba’s face. He reached out again, offering his hand. “I went to look for you as soon as I knew. That very day, but it took so much longer to find you. To ask, only, if we cannot not begin again where we left off?”

Wamba was very still, looking at Oscar with anguished eyes. Then he stepped back, away from Oscar, and wrapped his arms around himself once more. “I don't know if I can, Oscar.”

Oscar’s heart cracked. “Why not?”

“Surely it is only a matter of time before you begin to desire those things of your own will,” Wamba said. “A family, a marriage.”

“I do want marriage,” Oscar said, though it felt as though he pushed the words out through a throat full of broken glass. “I want it with you.”

Wamba shook his head, the corner of his mouth tipping in a mirthless smile. "That can never be. We were foolish to pretend otherwise. The things you desire are things I cannot give you. We have played at the impossible long enough, don’t you think?"

Oscar had never thought to hear such bitterness in his words. It called to the despair that lurked just beneath the threadbare tatters of Oscar’s resolve, that which had dogged him all the way from London to Coningsburgh. He was so tired of this pain. It spilled out of him regardless, hot tears rolling down his cheeks to drip from his chin. “It was not play to me. I meant every word.”

“As did I,” Wamba admitted, “but I have seen the folly of them.”

“Will you have done with me so easily? Can I not have even your friendship?”

“Nothing of this is easy for me,” Wamba said. “I told you once that we could not exist as companions, that we must be as we were or part ways. That is still true.”

“You told me also that you could not choose to leave me."

“I did not choose it. I could not have chosen it. But it came upon us regardless, and as we stand I see that there is greater wisdom in making a clean break. I cannot undo what has been done, but I can choose not to repeat my mistakes.” Wamba was shaking, even as he drew himself up with all the dignity he could manage. “Go back to London, Oscar. Go find someone to make you a wife. It cannot be me.”

He swiped a hand across his eyes and moved quickly toward the door. Oscar stumbled to his feet, calling his name, but Wamba did not give him a chance to speak. Before Oscar could even steady his weary legs beneath him, the door had closed and Wamba was gone.

Oscar stood, trembling in shock and disbelief. A terrifying emptiness took him over, stealing his breath and darkening his vision. He had spent everything he had left to follow Wamba, and it had not been enough. His knees surrendered to the weight of his grief, dropping him to sit on the pallet once more. Oscar buried his head in his hands and let his sorrow pour from him in heaving sobs.

If he could only explain, if he could apologize, he had believed that Wamba would forgive him as he always had. Instead, he had finally found the limit of Wamba’s forbearance, and it was more devastating than he ever could have imagined. His final hope spent, Oscar sat and wept, until even his tears ran dry and he simply stared into the fire, wondering if the hollow where his heart used to be would ever cease to ache.

He did not think Wamba would want to find him here when he returned, and he did not think that he could bear to face him again. Perhaps it was better to be gone as Wamba asked, better to return home defeated than continue to dash himself uselessly to pieces against a gate that was closed to him.

The sound of the door opening jerked him from his thoughts. He turned his head and saw Devy pushing the door open with the edge of a tray. It caught on the handle, and she tripped as it lurched to a halt, stumbling into the room. Oscar rose then, to catch the tray and right her with a hand on her arm. She jerked away from his grasp. Oscar quickly stepped back, and she relaxed with an apologetic smile.

“You’re awake!”

“I am,” Oscar nodded. He set the tray on the sideboard, examining the generous spread of bread and cheese and cold meats and honeyed porridge and small, early peaches. “Is this for me?”

“Yes,” Devy said. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I brought some of everything.”

Oscar considered the food, and came to a decision. He looked around until he located his satchel tucked beneath the foot of his pallet. He stooped to tug it free, and returned to the sideboard. He pulled out the soiled tunic and wrapped it into a tight ball, tucking it to one side, then began to pack the bread and cheese and fruit into the newly opened space.

“What are you doing?” Devy asked.

“Packing,” Oscar replied. “Can you show me where the kitchens are?” He had never had trouble wheedling food from cooks as a hungry boy. He hoped that whatever charm he possessed would still work, even filthy and heartbroken as he was.

“You’re leaving?” Devy squeaked. “But you just arrived!”

“It seems I was unwelcome." Oscar slung his satchel over his shoulder and stepped into his battered boots. He scooped up his cloak and looked at Devy expectantly. “The kitchens?”

She frowned, but she nodded and led him through the narrow corridors of the castle and down a set of spiral stairs to a long corridor to the kitchens. It was hot and crowded, what looked like an entire festival’s worth of food stacked in barrels and baskets and sacks along the walls. A line of aproned servants stood before an older woman in a simple woolen shift. Her steel gray hair was braided and coiled at the base of her neck. Her head was uncovered, but by her bearing, Oscar thought she must be the head cook. She was handing out orders to the attentively listening servants, though she paused when Oscar entered.

She looked him over, and Oscar did his best to give her what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. She scowled. “What is it you need, boy?”

“I was hoping to beg some food,” Oscar said humbly. “Any hard bread or old stores you can spare.”

The woman’s brow lifted, and she looked to Devy.

“I thought you took his breakfast to him.”

“I did, my lady,” Devy said, pointing to the satchel at his side. “He packed it. He says he’s leaving.”

Oscar immediately realized his mistake. This was no servant, but the Lady Edith herself, she who had been ready to leave him to the wolves. He quickly bowed. “My lady!”

Edith dismissed the servants with a wave, and they quickly scattered to return to their duties. The lady strode over to where Oscar stood, and his heart thumped heavily against his ribs in time with her steps. She must have been very beautiful, once, for even age had not been able to blur the fine lines of her features or the sharp intelligence in her eyes. She crossed her arms and stared at Oscar’s face for a long moment, assessing him with narrowed eyes. Then she hummed. “Giving up so easily, then?”

“My lady?”

“He tells me that you have not done the things he thought you did. This is true?”

With an effort, Oscar gathered himself to make his confession one more time, simply and without any useless justifications. “I did not mean to betray him. A woman drugged me so that I would lie with her. She lied about carrying my child to force me to marry her. I discovered her lie, and came to find him.” He swallowed, and forced himself to say the rest. “But he does not want me.”

That truth was an anchor around his heart, dragging it down to black depths that threatened to crush him. Edith observed his pain without comment or any shift of her stern expression. She turned. “Come with me.”

Oscar had no choice but to follow. Devy skittered along behind him, as he was led back out of the kitchen and into different corridors, until he was ushered into a comfortably appointed chamber, with two large chairs and an enormous loom.

Edith took one chair, and pointed to the other. “Sit.”

Obediently, Oscar sat. He folded his hands in his lap to still their nervous fidgeting, and tried to keep his back very straight. Devy went to the hearth to light the fire.

Edith regarded him dispassionately. “Now tell me. What did he say to you?”

Oscar watched Devy’s back, her small hands striking the flint. He wondered how long this torture must go on. “As I said, my lady. He does not want me any longer.”

“No,” Edith said sharply. “I did not ask what you heard. I asked what he said.”

Oscar frowned, and turned his eyes to Edith. She was waiting expectantly, so he cast his memory back, trying to pull aside the veil of pain to remember the words. “I asked if we could begin again where we had left off, and he said he could not. He said that I would eventually want a family, and as he could not give me that it was better to make a clean break.”

“That sounds more likely,” Edith said, her mouth set in a grim line. “You took this to mean he does not want you any longer?”

“What else could it mean?” Oscar cried, his eyes stinging again. “I asked him to forgive me and he said that he could not.”

Edith sat back in her chair, her unadorned hand resting on the arm. “Do you know who I am?”

“Lady Edith of Coningsburgh,” Oscar said, confused at the sudden change of topic.

“He has not told you of me.”

It was not a question, but Oscar responded anyway. “No, my lady.”

“Then I will tell you about the night we met, and perhaps you will understand him a little better.”

The fire was burning now. Devy went to the lady and dropped down to sit beside her chair in a puff of skirts, a curious light in her blue eyes. Oscar could not share it. He did not know what good it would do him to understand Wamba now, when he would likely never speak to him again, but he listened as he was bid.

“My husband was a friend and ally of Cedric of Rotherwood. You are familiar with that name, I am sure.”

“Yes, my lady,” Oscar dutifully replied.

“So, too, was my son. The last heir of the line of Saxon kings whose throne was stolen by Norman conquerors. Of course, my Athelstane had no great ambitions for himself. He was ever content to have a full belly and pleasant company. A most gentle, kind boy was my Athelstane.”

She spoke of him in hushed tones, and Oscar had to ask, “He has passed on, my lady?”

“He has. Many years ago, now. Cedric ever had greater hopes for him than he had for himself. He meant to make a king of my boy, to return the last Saxon dynasty to power. A fool’s errand, of course, but it drove Cedric. He disowned his own son in favor of seeing his ward Rowena betrothed to my Athelstane. That all ended at Torquilstone.”

Oscar felt his brows rise.

“You know that name, too, I see.”

“I do, my lady.”

“My Athelstane died of a wound he earned in that battle. A battle that need never have been fought, but that Wamba liberated his master to rally the forces of the Saxon outlaws. Without his intervention, Cedric and Athelstane might have offered Front-de-Boeuf peaceful ransom and walked free. Or so I believed. I was full of rage, so much so that I could not oversee the funeral feasts. I remained in my own chambers, mourning my son alone and showing my face to no one. I did not leave them until late that night, after the castle was at rest. I went to my private garden, as was my habit when sleep would not come to me. I found a shadow there, just clear in the moonlight, lurking by the little spring I loved. At first, I thought that one of the dogs had escaped from the kennel, but when I called out, it stopped still, and I realized it was a boy.”

Despite himself, Oscar found himself caught up in her tale, able to picture clearly the scene she painted, as surely as though it had been woven into one of her tapestries.

“I took him for a thief. There were many of that kind to be found at funerals. The gates were open to all. I thought to call the guard, but I did not. I scolded him instead, happy for someone upon whom I could spend my black emotions. It was only when I drew near that I realized I knew him. Cedric’s fool, cowering on the ground in my private sanctuary. He was bleeding yet, from what they had done to him, and in his own observances Cedric had forgotten to set someone to see to his care. He came to my bower seeking water and a quiet place to bathe his own wounds, and instead found me. I was even freer with my fury, then. I did not strike him, but I wanted to. I raged at him, for taking my boy from me, and he took it all silently. When I finally let him speak, he made no protest, but only invited me to take upon him whatever vengeance would give me satisfaction. He blamed himself for my son’s death as much as I.”

Oscar wanted to weep, for he could see it. It was too easy to imagine Wamba bleeding and exhausted and offering what was left of himself for further punishment, believing that he deserved every bit of it.

“I forced him to show me his injuries. I had not been told in any detail what had been done to him, only that he had survived and my son had not, but he showed me. It was what I needed. I had not been able to mourn my son properly, though I had bathed his limbs and wrapped him in his shroud with my own hands. Wamba’s pain released me to grieve. I wept with him, as I had not been able since I learned of my son’s death. He let me tend him, and prepare him a bed, here on this hearth. In the morning, we spoke again, and went together to table. We have kept a correspondence ever since, though we have seldom had opportunity to meet, over the years.”

“I did not realize he wrote to you,” Oscar said. “I never saw any letter that you had sent.”

“They were more regular when he was still at Rotherwood. It is less than a day’s ride from here, for a messenger on a strong horse. London is a good deal farther. We exchange no more than four or five letters in a year, anymore.”

“Thank you for telling me your story, my lady,” Oscar said, “but what does it have to do with me?”

“It is clear to me that there are things you do not understand about him. Things you must learn if you wish to be with him."

Oscar jerked his head up to meet her eyes, startled. “You think there is a chance, still?”

“Of course,” Edith said. “He did not say that he does not want you. He said that he does not believe your best interests are served by being with him. You don’t see that he does not hate you for what you did. He loves you now as much as ever.”

“Then why didn’t he ask me to stay?” Oscar said. "He just let me go.”

“You are hurt that he did not fight for you, did not try to prevent you going to that woman. What you must accept is that he never believed that was a battle he could win. He has been preparing himself to be abandoned from the first moment he let you close to him, waiting for the day when you would find something that would suit you better. He blames himself for wanting too much of you. That is the man his life has shaped him to be.”

“I never meant to betray him,” Oscar insisted, and to his shame he was weeping again. “I tried to be what he needed. I do not want anyone else.”

“I was not sure of that until I met you,” Edith said, “but I believe that you want the best for him. You must convince him of that, if you are to have what you desire. Are you prepared to do that? Are you prepared to stand with him, even knowing that he might never fully trust that you are his to keep?”

Her words lit a new fire in Oscar’s belly, a determination he thought extinguished reborn as a raw spark of fresh hope. He stood, and faced her fully. “I will fight every day to make him believe it.”

Edith stood as well, and nodded solemnly. “Then do not return to London. Stay, and change his mind.”


	68. Chapter 68

Oscar was not afforded much time to plan that day. On Lady Edith’s orders, he was shuttled about from one end of the keep to the other, passed from hand to hand by a parade of friendly but ruthlessly efficient servants until every trace of his arduous journey was erased. Late afternoon found him presented before the lady again, freshly scrubbed, shaved, clipped and trimmed, and outfitted in a simple but clean linen tunic and woolen leggings, with flat leather shoes that were only slightly too large upon his feet. Upon passing Edith’s inspection, he was fed a hearty meal of dark bread and mutton stew, with more of that same excellent ale, then deposited back in Wamba’s chamber by Devy. He immediately slumped down on his pallet to give his head a chance to catch up with the rest of him.

Instead, once he was no longer dashing about, Oscar’s lingering weariness pounced upon him unawares, and before he could even begin to contemplate how he would win Wamba back, he found his eyes drooping closed and the call of the soft bed beneath him too tempting to resist. He set his shoes and belt aside and crawled beneath his blanket, burrowing into the welcome warmth. He had a moment of niggling guilt that Wamba would find him here when he returned, when he was surely expecting Oscar to be gone, but Edith had sent him back and made no mention of any other arrangements, so he decided not to question her designs as he succumbed to sleep.

When he woke again, the airy room was painted in the purples and bruised blues of dusk. He lay quiet for a moment, listening for any whisper of movement in the silence around him. Once it was clear he was alone, Oscar shuffled his cautious way over to the hearth and searched about with slow sweeps of his hands for the flint he knew must be there. His questing hands found it at last in a cold metal box on the sideboard, along with the steel striker. He felt his way back along the smooth flagstones to the hearth, and discovered that the fire had been laid already, soft tinder piled between the split logs. It was a matter of moments to strike the flint and send sparks flying to catch in the grate. Oscar blew carefully on the infant flame until the logs began to take light, then sat back to watch it grow.

There was no doubt that his circumstances were much improved from where he had been just a single day ago. Winning Edith as an ally was no small thing, but Oscar knew that not even that would guarantee his success. He would need to prove that no matter how thoughtless his words or impetuous his behavior, his heart had not strayed since he was a mere boy of fifteen, and certainly would not do so in future. Wamba was so much a part of who he had become that Oscar could not even contemplate a life with anyone else. No other could ever know him as deeply or suit him as well, for Wamba had shaped Oscar around him, into a sheath that fit only one sword.

The challenge that remained was how to convey this to Wamba in a way that would leave no room for doubt of Oscar’s sincerity. He heaved a gusty sigh and sprawled backward on his pallet, arms outstretched to either side, to stare up at the ceiling as he pondered his predicament. He had already written his confession, and pleaded his case. He did not think that Wamba would appreciate a grand declaration before the people of Coningsburgh, nor would Oscar care to be rejected in such a public scene should his gesture fail to win him the forgiveness he sought.

The tap of footsteps in the corridor reached Oscar’s ear. He listened intently, waiting to see if they would pass by. They stopped just outside, and that pause was soon followed by the rising creak of the door. Oscar’s heart stuttered, then stumbled into an awkward canter. He was not ready to see Wamba yet, and wholly unwilling to risk being banished before he had a chance to make up his mind about what to do. He quickly closed his eyes, and lay very still. The door shut with a whine of aged hinges and a clack of wood on stone. Then soft steps shuffled across the floor, slow and weary. They stopped, very close to where Oscar lay, and Oscar was certain he could feel the weight of Wamba’s gaze on him. He resisted the temptation to peek and forced his breaths to come slow and steady, praying that he gave a convincing impression of sleep.

After a long moment, the steps continued on toward the bed. There was a brief shuffle of cloth, a quiet exhale, and silence fell again, leaving only the pounding drumbeat of Oscar’s heart in his own ears. Slowly, that too quieted, until Oscar finally dared to open his eyes. He craned his head up to look at the bed. He could just make out the faint lump of Wamba’s body beneath the blankets, but it was impossible to tell whether his face was turned toward where Oscar lay. Just in case, Oscar closed his eyes again, and very carefully did not move.

As the quiet stretched on, Oscar let his thoughts drift. They wandered to London, to his brother and to his friends, to those who he knew wished him success from afar. To his own chagrin, he caught himself wondering what Nicholas would advise him to do now, whether he would chide Oscar again for his lack of spine. But these speculations were fleeting. Inevitably, his thoughts returned to Wamba, and lingered. It was a unique torture to have him so close, and yet be forbidden to reach out and touch. Oscar recalled all too vividly the cherished feel of that spare body in his arms, the way it pulsed with precious life beneath his hands, breaths slow and deep in sleep, or sharp and quick as Oscar poured into him all the pleasure he could give.

Oscar cocked his head with a frown, realizing of a sudden that it was no memory that supplied that sound. He could hear Wamba gasping short breaths, though by the edge of a whimper beneath it was no happy vision that wrung them forth. Oscar sat up, and looked back over his shoulder, but the angle did not allow him to see Wamba’s face. He pushed himself to his feet to slowly approach the bed.

Wamba’s boots lay on the floor beside a large wooden chest. His stained smock and trousers were draped over the top of it. He was curled small beneath the blankets with his face turned into the bedclothes. One hand clutched the pillow beneath his head. The other was clawed into the mattress, tight as the pained lines of his expression in the firelight. His next breath caught in his chest, tore out of him in a choked gasp.

Oscar’s hands clenched at his sides, the beginnings of frustrated tears smarting behind his eyes. He was not surprised that Wamba’s nightmares had returned to plague him, but the only cure he knew was more than he would dare. He would not climb into Wamba’s bed uninvited, no matter how much it devastated him to see the gentle man this way. He watched, helpless, while Wamba’s jaw clenched and his knuckles went white with the force of his grip, though his voice never rose beyond that quiet distress.

Against his better judgment, Oscar reached out and slipped his own hand beneath Wamba’s wrist. He brushed a touch along the base of his palm, gently prompting his fingers to open. They did, to his relief, but no sooner had Wamba’s hand released the bedding than it clamped down viselike on Oscar’s. Oscar’s eyes darted to his face, but Wamba had not woken. He slept on, as the touch worked its familiar magic and the knot in his brow began to loosen. A moment later, his jaw unclenched and his mouth softened, his breaths slowing to something closer to peaceful sleep.

Oscar watched him with a burst of emotion like a gaping wound opening in his chest. He wondered how long it had been since Wamba had been able to truly rest, and what he would think about the fact that it was Oscar who lent that reassurance now. Still, it had worked, and Oscar was grateful that he was able to provide this for Wamba, at least. The grip on his hand had slackened not at all, and Oscar could not see how he could liberate himself without waking Wamba.

At a loss, he turned until he could sit on the flat top of the chest at the bedside, pushing aside a candle that had long gone cold. He rested his arm on the bed so that he did not have to hold it suspended to allow Wamba to keep possession of his hand. It lay beside Wamba’s pillow, just close enough that soft breaths ghosted along his arm, causing the hairs on his skin to rise on end. He leaned back against the cool stone of the wall to wait, and decided there was no harm in allowing himself to enjoy the feel of Wamba’s touch in turn. His palm was roughened by whatever work he had been doing, but the comfort even that small contact gave was enough to ease the ache in Oscar’s heart.

Oscar closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall, wishing he did not have to wonder if he would ever have this privilege again. He did not intend to sleep, but of its own accord his body slowed, until he was breathing in time with Wamba, more at peace than he had been since their nights in Dover. Before he could prevent it, Oscar was tumbling into pleasant dreams of laughing eyes and formless pleasures, his hand still clasped tight and secure in Wamba’s.

He jerked awake with a snort, in bright daylight, shocked to discover that the whole night had passed. The fire was no more than ashes. Oscar blinked and wiped at a bit of drool that had crept down his chin, but froze, hand still on his face, when he noticed a pair of dark eyes watching him.

Wamba had not shifted during the night. He lay still on his side, his hand closed about Oscar’s, his face unreadable. As Oscar watched, at a loss for what to say, his eyes flicked down to their joined hands, and back to Oscar. They stared at one another, a tension mounting as the silence stretched long. Then Oscar swallowed, and the threads holding them to stillness snapped. Wamba used his grip on Oscar’s hand to tug him forward, and Oscar moved in that same moment to follow, leaning in as Wamba tilted his face up to meet him.

It was Oscar who slotted their mouths together, slow and tender, and Wamba who invited him deeper with parted lips and a hand curved around his cheek. Oscar responded without hesitation, letting his tongue quest after its mate until they were tangled together in the languid dance that was all the sustenance his heart required. Oscar staggered awkwardly to his feet without breaking the kiss, leaning down over the bed as Wamba fell back and pulled Oscar with him, until he was sprawled half across his lover, doing his best to devour him as Wamba did the same to him. It was shockingly perfect, every worry falling away to make way for relief and purest joy as Oscar threw himself into the kiss with abandon.

Until Wamba’s mouth abruptly went hard beneath his, and the hand that so tenderly cradled Oscar’s head turned and began to push against him instead. Oscar broke away, bewildered, but Wamba did not let him stop. He shoved Oscar back with both hands on his chest, and flew from the bed.

“What is it?” Oscar gasped, head still spinning. “What’s wrong?”

“We should not have done that,” Wamba said tersely, snatching up his trousers and tugging them hastily on beneath his nightshirt with lowered eyes.

“Why not?” Oscar reached out to try to still his frantic motions, but Wamba jerked away from his hands and stripped off his nightshirt, throwing it down to pull his smock on instead.

“What did you think you were doing?” he said, dark and not a little hostile.

“You kissed me." Oscar let his arms fall useless to his sides.

“I know that,” Wamba snapped. Then his shoulders bowed, and he sighed. “Why were you holding my hand?”

“You had a nightmare. That’s the only way I know to help.”

“I did not ask for your help.” Wamba hastily pulled on his boots. “I asked you to leave. Why are you still here?”

“I can’t leave,” Oscar said quietly. “Not without you.”

Wamba finally looked at him, expression stricken and tears standing in his eyes. “Why must you always be so damnably stubborn?”

He did not wait for Oscar’s reply. He looked away and strode toward the door.

“Wamba, wait!” Oscar called after him, but he was already gone.

Oscar stared at the closed door, his lips still singing from their kiss, and his resolve hardened inside him. There was no denying the yearning in that kiss, the exquisite perfection of how well they fit. Even that one short moment had proven it beyond any doubt. Wamba still loved him, still wanted him. As long as that was true, as long as it was only fear that stood between them, Oscar would never surrender. He put on his shoes and went to find Edith.

He found Devy first, coming the opposite way.

“I need to speak with Lady Edith."

Devy glanced back over her shoulder, though the corridor behind her was empty. “What about some breakfast first?”

“Thank you,” Oscar said, “but I would prefer to speak to her first.”

Devy chewed on her lip. “She can’t speak to you now.”

Oscar looked past her to the door of the lady’s chamber. “He’s in there, isn’t he?”

Devy nodded, eyeing Oscar warily as though she might need to stop him doing something rash. He huffed, and resigned himself to wait his turn.

“All right. Breakfast it is.”

The kitchens were teeming with servants, the windows and doors thrown wide and every fire and oven roaring. It reminded Oscar of the preparations for the Christmas feast in the tower, and he wondered what occasion might merit such a lavish meal. Devy guided him through the chaos to a table. He ate what she set before him on habit, but he could not taste it, too distracted by the gnawing worry about what Wamba might be saying to the lady. Once he finished his meal, he sat drumming his fingers on the wooden tabletop, practically vibrating with nerves.

It was a mercy when Devy returned at last to guide him up to see Edith. She was seated in the same chair she had taken the day before, a small table beside her laid with her half-eaten breakfast. She held a cup in her hand, drinking slowly. She looked up at Oscar coolly as he approached.

“It is many years since I have entertained so many visitors so early in the day.”

“Good morning, my lady,” Oscar greeted her. He stood before her, back straight and hands clasped behind him.

“Good morning.” She gestured to the open chair. “Will you join me?”

“No, thank you. I’ve eaten already.”

“I see." Edith looked him over assessingly. “Then what is it I can do for you?"

“Did he ask you to send me away?” Oscar blurted out.

Edith’s brow rose. She put down her cup and folded her hands in her lap. Oscar’s fingers trembled as he waited.

“No,” she said at last. “He asked me to provide you a room of your own.”

It hurt, but he deserved it for his brazen actions the night before. “Very well.”

“You will accept that?” Edith asked.

“I will, my lady,” Oscar said, “but I won’t give up so easily.”

Edith’s face softened in a faint smile. “That is good to hear. Was there something else you needed, then?”

“Yes,” Oscar nodded. “I wondered if you might see fit to let me work for you. I don’t know much about your estate, but I’ll do whatever task requires a pair of hands.”

“You need money?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And what, pray tell, do you need it for?”

Oscar took a breath, and voiced his plans for the first time. “I promised him a token, before all of this happened. It is my intention to find him one, but I spent everything I had to get here.”

“A token?” the lady said curiously, her eyes betraying a hint of mirth now. “Interesting. I might be able to do something about that.”

“My lady?”

“Wait here,” she said, and stood. “Devy, tidy this for me, please.”

So Oscar sat and waited while Edith disappeared and Devy cleared up the breakfast dishes and carried them away. It was not long before Edith returned, carrying a small wooden chest that she set on the table between them.

“Now,” she said, lifting the lid of the chest, “what was it that you had in mind?”

Oscar’s mouth fell open as he caught sight of the treasure within. Gold, silver and precious gemstones sparkled in a dazzling array of wealth. “My lady..." he stuttered.

“I’ll hear nothing from you but your intentions,” Edith warned him.

“I’m not sure,” Oscar said, tearing his eyes from the jewelry. “A ring is traditional, but he already has one of those.”

“Yes,” Edith said thoughtfully. “You are wise not to compete with Cedric. What about something like this?”

The piece she pulled forth was a cuff of bright yellow gold, ornately carved with a pattern of immense complexity, elegant lines winding around and between one another. She handed it to him, and he took it gingerly between his fingertips, worried that he might blemish it by his touch.

“It’s very lovely, my lady,” Oscar said noncommittally. It was, and he hated to be so critical of her generosity.

“But?” Edith prompted with a raised brow.

“But I don’t want to give him anything quite so reminiscent of a shackle,” Oscar admitted, shamefaced.

“I see,” Edith said, taking the cuff from him and tossing it casually back into the box. “That is most admirable of you.”

“Actually,” Oscar ventured, as a stinging blush rose in his cheeks, “I was hoping to find something in a pair.”

“A pair?”

“Something we can each have. I don’t want to put a mark of ownership on him. He's not anyone's property anymore. I want something to show that we chose one another.”

Oscar thought he might die of the embarrassment of the confession, his face aflame, but Edith only smiled. “I might have just the thing.”

She reached down the side of the chest, into a narrow compartment from which she withdrew a folded length of silk. She held it in the flat of her hand and flipped the cloth aside to show him what lay within.

“Have a look at that.”

It was a silver coin, perfectly round and of a size that just fit comfortably in Edith’s palm. It had been cast with a pattern of elegant runes, a single curving symbol in the center, with a border of smaller shapes surrounding it.

“What is it?” Oscar asked, awed.

“It was given to my mother by my father as a part of her morning gift,” Edith said, turning it so Oscar could see both faces. “This side promises love, and this side fidelity.”

“It’s beautiful,” Oscar breathed. It was also perfect. He would never find anything better, but he quickly realized that it was far too fine. “I could not take something so valuable from you, my lady.”

“It does nothing now but sit in a cupboard, hidden away even from the light of day. My mother treasured it while she lived, but it has been neglected for far too long. I’m sure she would be pleased to see it bring joy to young lovers again.”

Oscar stared a little longer, tempted beyond words. “I cannot repay you for it,” he forced himself to say. “It would take all my life to earn its worth.”

“All your life is my price, indeed,” the lady said gravely, one brow arched high. “All your life for him. Make him happy. That is all I require of you.”

“That is easily paid,” Oscar said, fighting to speak the words past the lump in his throat. “We cannot share it, though.”

Edith smiled, and folded the silk over the coin once more. “Let me see to that.”

“Is there nothing I can do for you now?” Oscar asked, overwhelmed by the generosity of her gift. "Anything to help?"

“If you really want to work, there is one task I can give you,” Edith said. “If you are clever, it will help you in your other endeavor as well.”

Oscar did not even ask what the task might be before he agreed.


	69. Chapter 69

Oscar had never seen so many sheep. They blanketed the grassy meadow behind the castle, filling the air with an earthy stench and the deafening cacophony of their ceaseless bleating. They milled about nervously with heads raised, snowy lambs toddling about on new legs to follow their mothers while shepherdesses with their crooks and tenacious little herding dogs swept tirelessly about the edges of the throng. As he approached down the path and could observe more closely, Oscar began to grasp the order in the pandemonium. The sheep on one side of the meadow were plump with a healthy growth of wool, while those on the other shuffled and shuddered in a daze, shorn clean of their matted coats. Between the two toiled the apparatus by which this transformation was realized.

The stream running through the meadow was blocked by a dam of sturdy wooden slats, trapping the water to pool at its lowest point. Into this makeshift pond, the sheep were herded two and three at a time. Half a dozen men waited for them there, sunk past their knees in the water while they scrubbed their hands through the heavy tangle of wool, freeing the worst of the collected grime and infestation to be swept away. Then the beasts were released, heaved out of the water and straight into the hands of the shearers.

These were much greater in number. Oscar counted at least ten teams working each on a single beast, two people holding it still while a third freed the freshly rinsed wool with deft swipes of sharp iron shears. He watched amazed as a rangy woman in a white cap lifted an entire fleece away in a single piece. The denuded sheep fought its way up to its feet and shook itself all over. It was quickly driven to join its equally naked fellows, while the fleece was handed off to a young boy who ran it over to a line of enormous vats. Women stood on wooden benches to stir the vats with long poles. Beyond them, ranks of tall racks were draped with clean wool, hanging out to dry. Oscar took all of this in, then looked about the crowded meadow in search of the master of the herds to whom the lady had commended him.

Ten minutes later, he was soaked to his skin and swearing heartily as he wrestled sodden sheep out of the pool and delivered them to the nearest set of open hands. Oscar gave one beast a hearty shove, and turned just in time to catch the next, as a washer slapped an irritated ewe on its hind leg with a splash and sent it bounding toward Oscar. He fisted both hands in the wool on its back and tugged it up onto the bank with a heave. The beast was intractable, lunging one way while Oscar tried to steer it in another. Its rolling eyes with their oddly shaped pupils unnerved him, and he dragged it quickly on, eager to be rid of it.

“That one’s ours!” he heard a woman’s voice say. He looked up to see the skillful shearer he had watched earlier, but it was not she who made his heart leap into his throat. Wamba stood just behind her, looking at Oscar with the barest hint of a bemused tilt to his brow. Oscar shrugged, and offered a sheepish smile. It was hesitantly returned, until Wamba remembered himself and looked away with a quick shake of his head.

“Give her here, lad,” the man with them said. He took over Oscar’s hold, and Wamba stepped in to help turn the ewe onto its back, taking a firm grip on the hind legs and leaning in with his weight to hold it steady so the shearer could do her work. Oscar watched, captivated by the stray locks of hair flying free of its knot and the way the sinews stood out on his arms as he strained to still the beast’s struggles. He seemed a far different man than Oscar was accustomed to seeing, here among the serfs and servants. The chiding glance that darted his way a moment later, however, was very familiar. Oscar flushed as he returned to the pond to continue his work.

He returned to Wamba’s post several more times throughout the morning, doing his best to catch his eye at every pass. A thrill dashed through him each time Wamba reluctantly looked his way. This kept him in motion even as his limbs began to grow weary, his arms and shoulders aching from the constant battles with aggravated beasts. When the master finally called for a break, he slumped down gratefully on his knees at the edge of the stream, well above the pond, and dunked his head in the cool water to wash away the sweat. He splashed his face for good measure, then clawed his hair back from his eyes and sprawled out on the grass to rest. He leaned back on his hands and tipped his face up to the sun with closed eyes.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

Oscar opened one eye to discover the rosy face of a young woman peering down into his. Her hair was bound up in flaxen braids, and she was not alone. Two dark-haired companions at her back, looking at Oscar in frank curiosity. All three wore the humble garb and carried the crooks of shepherdesses.

“I am,” he said.

“Where did you come from?”

“What’s your name?” asked another at the same moment, leaning eagerly over her friend’s shoulder.

Oscar laughed and stood, brushing mud from the seat of his trousers. “My name’s Oscar. I’m from London.”

“London!” the fair-haired girl exclaimed. “That’s miles and miles from here!”

“It is,” Oscar agreed, the memory of those endless miles all too fresh in his mind.

“What’s it like?”

“How did you get here?” another asked.

“Do you want some ale?” piped the third.

They had surrounded him now, a bobbing, bubbling trio of sunny faces. He accepted the jug of ale that was pressed into his hand and took a long swallow, unsure how to respond.

“Are you staying for the feast?”

“The feast?” Oscar echoed. “When’s that?”

“Why, it’s tomorrow, of course! To celebrate the end of the shearing!”

“Then I suppose I’m staying,” Oscar said. They clapped their hands in delight.

The tallest of them leaned in, eyes very bright. “Do you have a sweetheart?”

“Oh,” Oscar coughed, fighting the flush that tried to force its way onto his cheeks. “I, um…”

That was when he noticed another pair of eyes on him. Wamba stood very still, watching him from no more than twenty paces away with an unreadable expression on his face. The voices around Oscar faded to meaningless noise in his ears. Then Wamba turned and began to walk away.

“Yes,” Oscar told the girls, handing back the ale. “Yes, I do.”

He pushed his way past them, careful but insistent until he was free of the pen they had formed around him and could stride determinedly after Wamba. He reached out and caught him by the elbow. Wamba turned, brows drawing down.

“What is it?”

Oscar opened his mouth to reply, but before he could make a sound, another voice bellowed out, “Ram!”

Wamba’s head snapped in the direction of the call, and Oscar quickly looked as well. It was indeed a young ram, its shining horns lowered and barreling toward them. It was a terrifying sight, the enraged beast’s powerful hind legs propelling it forward at an astonishing speed.

“Back,” Wamba said, pushing Oscar away. “Get back.”

“No!” Oscar refused to budge, shoving Wamba back instead and bracing himself with legs wide to intercept the charge.

“Oscar!” He heard the shout over the thunder of hooves just as the ram reached them, and he leapt upon it. He just cleared the horns, and landed hard on the beast’s back. It was still young, enough that his weight bore it to the ground where they wrestled in the dirt. It bleated angrily and fought to free itself, kicking and squirming in his grasp. He hung gamely to the matted wool, trying to hold it still, until a cloven hoof caught him in the stomach, perilously close to his most delicate bits. The pain shocked his hands open, enough that the ram was able to break free. He lay gasping as he watched it bound away to disappear into the rest of the herd.

“What did you think you were doing?” Wamba’s hands reached down to take his arms in a firm grip, dragging him back to his feet.

“Are you alright?” Oscar asked, wincing as he rubbed at the spot where the kick had landed. Wamba’s eyes were strangely bright, in a way Oscar was not sure how to interpret.

“Of course I am,” he said, “but look at you!”

That was when Oscar realized he was laughing. He was barely able to hold back his mirth. It bubbled from him every few moments in short chuckles, quickly quenched as he inspected Oscar for damage with careful hands.

“I was trying to stop it hurting you,” Oscar said, feeling rather petulant that his act of gallantry had resulted in such amusement.

“You don’t have to tackle them,” Wamba told him, giving up at last on fighting the helpless smile on his face. “Just get out of their way.”

“Well, how was I to know that?” Oscar grumbled. “For all I know, he could have been looking for someone to ram.”

“So you thought you it wise to make a target of yourself?” Wamba finished checking Oscar over and stepped back, still smiling.

“Better me than you,” Oscar said, but he could not help but return the smile.

“Oh, Oscar!” A rosy face appeared unexpectedly, blocking his view of Wamba. “You were so brave!”

“You’re so strong!”

“Were you wounded? Let me take a look.”

The shepherdesses quickly surrounded him. They touched his arms and his chest, cooing over his nonexistent injuries and offering him the ale again. He flushed and assured them of his good health, trying to extricate himself gracefully. By the time he looked up again, Wamba had melted away into the crowd.

Oscar did not let it discourage him. He counted his humiliation as a victory, though he would need many more before he could declare his mission a success. He returned to the castle where Devy met him and provided him with supper. Afterward, she showed him to a room that was much less grand than Wamba’s, though still large enough that it had its own small hearth across from the narrow bed. He fell gratefully into its welcome comfort. If he dreamed, he did not remember it, and woke the following morning refreshed and ready to do battle once more.

Deciding to try a different tactic, he volunteered to help with the shearing. Then he spent the morning gradually working his way closer to Wamba, until he managed to step in between one sheep and the next and join him. The man he had displaced simply shrugged, and went to take Oscar’s abandoned post instead. Oscar’s eyes met Wamba’s as he leaned down to brace the sheep still with his weight, and he grinned. Wamba did not say anything, but Oscar did not miss the small answering smile as he ducked his head.

They worked side by side until the master called a halt just past noon. Oscar stood and stretched out his back, looking around. To his surprise, there were no more sheep waiting on the far side of the meadow. Every last one had been sheared and sent to join the shivering herds. All that remained was to finish the washing and prepare for the feast.

“We’re done?” he turned to ask Wamba, only to discover that he had once again disappeared and Oscar was alone. He huffed out a breath, shaking his head.

Lacking for anything better to do, Oscar went to help the men rolling casks of ale from the storehouse of the brewery up the hill to the castle. The servants had been busy there. The wide open courtyard within the walls had been transformed with tables festooned with flowers. Bright lengths of cloth and colorful garlands formed a festive canopy, strung from the battlements down to a tall pole in the center of the yard. Four unlit bonfires were laid at even distances around it, with smaller fires scattered along the base of the walls. People were slowly beginning to gather there, staking places at the tables closest to the bonfires, chattering and laughing in happy company now that their work was done. It looked likely to be a merry celebration.

Oscar was sharing a sampling of the ale with the brewers when he noticed Devy approaching with a harried air. “Oscar,” she said. “You need to go and change before the feast.”

“Change?” Oscar looked down at his soiled tunic. “This is the best I’ve got. I don’t even know what happened to my other clothes.”

“Lady Edith has seen to it,” Devy said. “You’ll find everything you need in your room.”

“Alright, then,” Oscar said, intrigued by this unexpected turn. He bid farewell to the brewers, who saluted him with their cups, and went to discover what new plan the lady had for him.

He found his way back to his room after only two wrong turns, only to nearly topple headfirst into a bath that had not been there before. He barked his shins on it and hopped about cursing until the stinging passed. The tub occupied the entirety of the narrow space between the bed and the hearth. It was filled with steaming water, a message so clear even he could not mistake it. Oscar quickly stripped off his clothing and submerged himself in the bath. There was soap and a rough cloth for washing, so he made thorough use of both, and scrubbed some of the soft stuff through his hair for good measure.

He was wiping water from his eyes when he noticed what awaited him on the bed. He just stared it at for a moment, unable to believe it was really meant for him. Then he reached out a wet hand to touch. The tunic was of lambswool, thin and light and dyed the deep red of rich wine. Oscar had never worn anything so fine. He rubbed it between his fingers, wondering at the softness of the weave. The trousers beneath it were of fawn colored hide, and he noticed sturdy new boots of the same shade resting beside the bed.

That was not all. A small wooden box was centered carefully on top of the tunic, simple and unassuming but for the prominent place it had been given. He picked it up carefully between both hands and let his fingers run over the edges of the lid for a moment before he pulled it away. It was lined with a bed of soft velvet. When he saw what lay atop it, he began to smile.

He quickly set it back on the bed, and leapt from the bath to dry himself and dress in his fine new clothes. They were impeccably fitted, as were the boots, but nothing was more perfect than the gift in the box. His eyes returned to it irresistibly, until he finally picked it up and slipped it carefully into his pocket. He patted the faint bump it made as he set out.

The yard was alive with merriment by the time he returned. The bonfires roared, sending sparks flying up into the darkening sky. The sound of drums and flutes mixed with the babble of the revelers. It seemed all of Lady Edith’s people must be there. They crowded onto the benches at the tables, clustered about near the ale barrels, and a few spirited youths were dancing already. Oscar took all of this in, his mood buoyed by the general atmosphere of good spirits, but his eyes were restless until they found that for which they hungered.

He found it at the closest thing to a high table to be seen in the yard. Lady Edith was seated in a high-backed chair on a low dais, surveying the festivities with a benevolent smile on her face. Every few moments, someone approached to greet her, and she graciously acknowledged each. Devy sat on a stool at her feet, clapping her hands in time to the beat of the drums with a wide grin. Wamba stood to the lady’s other side, and once Oscar’s gaze fell on him he could not tear it away.

Even weary as he was, Wamba was stunning. He wore a buttoned leather vest with a high collar, fitted so close around his body it must have been made for him. The loose sleeves of the tunic beneath were of palest blue. His jaw was smooth, his hair clean and shining. Someone, Oscar suspected Devy, had tied it back for him in a neat tail. It was a style that Ivanhoe favored, but Oscar had never seen it on Wamba. He looked like nothing so much as a young noble, and had Oscar looked on him with a stranger’s eyes he might have assumed him to be the lady’s own son, or perhaps a favorite nephew, so well suited was he to both the dress and the place at her side. As Oscar watched, he made some remark to Edith, and she favored him with an indulgent smile and a brief reply.

It drained Oscar’s confidence, made him shy in a way that he did not like but also could not fight. So he decided to retreat and wait for a better moment to approach. He turned away to look for the friendly brewers and their fortifying ale. The curious shepherdesses from the previous day found him there, and he was drawn to their table to share the meal with them and several other hands. He smiled and nodded along with the conversation, laughed at their jests, and told them about London when he was asked, but his distraction was ever on the edges of his awareness. His eyes returned frequently to the dais, and his hand fingered the lump in his pocket absently as they did.

It was in the midst of one such bout of protracted staring that he was abruptly interrupted, as everyone at his table rose. A small hand reached out and took his.

“Oh, Oscar, won’t you dance?”

“Yes, please, won’t you?”

“Sorry,” he said, pulling his hand away, “I’m not really in the mood.” The last thing he wanted was for Wamba to see Oscar cavorting about with charming young women before he had even gathered the nerve to greet him.

“But it’s such fun!”

“Are you going to sit here all by yourself?”

“I’ll be alright,” he said, hefting his half empty cup by way proof. “Don’t worry about me. Enjoy yourselves.”

They pouted and sniffed, but they eventually wandered off to the bonfires, leaving him alone with his cup and the irresistible urge to seek out Wamba again. The whole exchange had taken no longer than a few moments, but by the time his eyes returned to the dais, it was empty. Edith’s chair was abandoned, and Wamba was nowhere to be seen.

Oscar groaned, and let his head fall to thump on the table top. He poked at the lump in his pocket once more, his stomach sinking as he realized he had wasted his chance. He should have approached Wamba at once and asked to speak with him, audience be damned. He cursed himself again, and slumped down on his arms to stare morosely at the bonfires and the writhing shadows of the dancers.

“I swear a lash carries less sting than these mournful glances you cast my way.”

Oscar’s heart stuttered. His head shot up and he spun in his seat. Wamba stood just behind him, a faint smile tipping the corner of his mouth.

Oscar licked lips that felt suddenly dry as old parchment. “I did not mean to cause you any inconvenience.”

“Did you not?” Wamba’s smile turned wry. “Perhaps it is my own stinging conscience that bites so mercilessly.”

He climbed over the bench and sat down beside Oscar, close enough that Oscar’s skin ached for the tantalizing nearness of that touch.

“How have you found Coningsburgh?”

Oscar watched his calm profile, wondering what he was really thinking beneath the pleasantries.

“There is something very peaceful about it,” he said. “It has none of the desperation of London. People are happy here.”

“They are,” Wamba agreed. “There were some who doubted the wisdom in letting a woman run the estate. Lady Edith has more than proven her doubters wrong. Coningsburgh has prospered these last years.”

“How is it she came to keep it alone?” Oscar asked, genuinely curious.

“Lord Athelstane was the last male of his father’s line. Coningsburgh should rightly have gone to the crown, but the king declared that the estate should revert to Lady Edith instead. I think he meant it as a small recompense for the loss of her son.”

“Her people seem happy for the outcome.” Oscar said, watching the whirling ring of dancers at the closest fire. “But where is the lady? Did she retire?”

“She did, though the feasting will likely go on until dawn even without her.” Wamba glanced at him. "Did you not want to try a dance?"

Oscar heard the question he was really asking. He scraped together every last scrap of courage and looked Wamba in the eye. "I do, but the one I’m waiting for hasn't asked me yet."

Wamba’s lip twitched. “Then will you sit here alone all night?”

Oscar shrugged. “I suppose that’s for you to decide.”

Wamba was silent for a long moment, staring out across the yard with distant eyes. Then he stood, and offered Oscar his hand. “Come on, then. I can’t in good conscience let you suffer here in misery on a night of celebration.”

Oscar stared at him in stunned disbelief, but Wamba’s small smile was sincere. So he took the offered hand, and they walked together to the fire, their shoulders brushing. A little shock of lightning went through Oscar at each contact. They found a place in the ring in the lull between songs. A smiling young woman took Oscar’s free hand, but all his attention was focused on Wamba’s palm against his his, the energy that buzzed along his arm from that touch.

Then the drum began to beat a brisk tempo, and it was only then that Oscar realized he did not know the steps. He shot Wamba a panicked glance, and received an encouraging nod in return. A hop to the left, both feet high, and Oscar just a fraction of an instant behind, then one to the right. Two to the left, two to the right, and then with a high trill of flutes they were off, reeling around the fire. He watched Wamba’s feet, and on the second reverse he managed to step in time to the rhythm. Once he had it, it was like flying, a dizzying rush of the flames and laughing faces.

Then the flutes died away, leaving only the steady beat of a single drum, and his hands were suddenly freed. He looked about to see the dancers pairing off, but he had only a moment to wonder what came next before a warm hand closed on his hip.

“Like this,” Wamba murmured, taking Oscar’s right arm and wrapping it around his waist in turn so they stood hip to hip. Then he lifted his left arm in a curve over his head, and Oscar mirrored him. They began to turn in time to the beat, slow at first and then faster and faster as more drums joined and gained speed, and everyone around them became a whirling blur of skirts and laughter.

Wamba was laughing too, low and breathless as Oscar’s grip on his waist tightened, fingers digging into slick leather to keep a grasp as they reeled around one another. Then the flute shrilled once, and Wamba released him to switch sides. Oscar reached for him eagerly that time, pulling Wamba firm to his side with a bump. Wamba looked up at him, an elation in his eyes that was beautiful to see.

Around and around they whirled, until the drumming became frantic and Oscar’s feet were moving faster than he could think. This frenzies pace continued until he was sure he would fly off into the forest if he lost his grip. It built and built to a furious peak, then from one moment to the next, it stopped. Oscar staggered to a halt, catching Wamba against him to steady them both.

A great roar of cheering and clapping erupted around them. Oscar heard it, but he could do nothing but pant stare at Wamba, flushed and laughing and just as Oscar wanted to see him always. He slowly lowered his raised arm, and let it join the other around Wamba’s waist, so Oscar could hold him in the circle of his arms. The laughter fell from Wamba’s face. He looked at Oscar with wide eyes and parted lips, the two of them an island of stillness in the sea of merriment. Oscar did what came naturally to him. He bent his head and placed a soft kiss on those lips. Then he waited.

Wamba turned away. The hand on Oscar’s chest burned like a brand as it pushed him back, breaking his embrace and his heart in the same moment, but Wamba did not leave. He reached for Oscar’s hand instead, taking it in his own with a quick, uncertain glance at Oscar’s face. He tipped his head in the direction of the keep, and when Oscar nodded, he turned to lead the way.

With a thundering heart, Oscar followed.


	70. Chapter 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

The keep was quiet. After the cheerful commotion of the feast, the silence weighed heavy on Oscar’s ears, broken only by the mismatched sound of their footfalls and the rush of his own deliberate breaths. They walked side by side, and Oscar could not help the hopeful glances he darted at the man beside him. Wamba’s face was still, revealing nothing of what he might be thinking, but never once did he release Oscar’s hand, until they arrived at last at his chamber.

Oscar’s pallet had been removed. The light of the fire fell instead on a simple wooden bench beside the hearth. It was to this that Wamba led him. He sat, and Oscar settled close beside him, trying desperately to hold his tongue and wait for Wamba to break the silence. He failed.

“Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?” he asked, hands clenched together between his knees.

Wamba finally looked at him then, his eyes very dark in the low light. “Oh, Oscar,” he sighed, “I forgave you the moment I heard you were at the gate.”

Oscar’s throat tightened, as he realized that Nicholas had been right, that even a wound as deep as that which he had inflicted might be healed with love and remorse in sufficient measure.

“Then why?” he asked, uncaring how pitiful the question sounded. “Why did you keep pushing me away?”

“I was trying to let you go, to give you back your chance for an easier life than the one you seem intent on pursuing.” Wamba laughed, low and wry. “But you won’t leave.”

“I could not.” Oscar reached out to take Wamba’s hand. “Everything I want is here.”

Wamba’s fingers closed around his again, not quite tight enough to mask the way they trembled. “You cannot deny that there are things I cannot give you, Oscar. Children chief among them.”

“Then I do not need them,” Oscar said. “You give me everything I need.”

“And what do I take away? You are not my scribe any longer, nor my student. How long do you think you can remain in this guise of servant before the rumors turn to true suspicion? Will you really be content to hide all your life? Pretending to be less than you are?”

Oscar had wondered the same, to his shame, on nights when Alice’s wine and poison words had infected him with resentment for Wamba’s apparent disregard for Oscar’s position. It soothed the residual prick of those barbs to know that Wamba had harbored these same concerns, or perhaps it was his fears that spoke under the cover of good sense. Regardless, Oscar knew there was only one answer he could give.

“My life is mine to do with as I please. In choosing to give it to you, I accept all those things as challenges I will willingly face.”

Wamba shook his head, a hint of rueful amusement in the quirk of his lips. “I should have known better than to think I could ever best you for stubbornness.”

“And you?” Oscar asked, fearful the answer. “What do you want?”

Wamba huffed, his eyes warm on Oscar as his mouth tipped in a lopsided smile. “It seems I cannot help this terrible selfishness where you are concerned.”

Oscar laughed, the sudden lightness like a ray of cleansing sun washing over his bruised heart. He could not resist closing that last distance between them. Wamba’s hand tightened on his, and their knees knocked as their lips slid together, dry and warm at first, then growing quickly slick as Oscar delved insistently into Wamba’s mouth. He cupped his free hand around Wamba’s nape, the tips of his fingers sliding beneath the edges of his stiff collar to tease soft skin.

Wamba’s hand fisted possessively in the fine wool of his tunic, stretching it tight across his shoulders as he used it to pull Oscar closer. In this, they were in perfect harmony, for Oscar was as eager to remain as Wamba was to keep him. He licked at the soft insides of Wamba’s mouth, making a slow exploration of this familiar ground and winning a sigh that ghosted over his cheek. His hand slid up, fingers tangling in Wamba’s hair, until they snarled on the unaccustomed obstacle of the leather thong that bound pale gold locks back from his face.

Oscar broke away, just far enough to smile. “Your hair.”

The flush on Wamba’s face darkened, shining lips twisting into a wry curl. “It has grown too long. Devy promised to cut it for me. Only she swore she would not have time until tomorrow.”

“It suits you,” Oscar told him, carefully extracting his fingers to smooth the damage as best he could. He brushed a soft touch along the edge of the collar to Wamba’s throat. “All of it.”

“The Lady Edith has no end of cunning when it comes to achieving her designs,” Wamba said. He released his grip on Oscar’s tunic and patted it flat once more. “It appears she has outdone herself in this instance.”

“You mean she planned all of this?”

Wamba laughed softly and poked Oscar pointedly in the chest. “Do you think she gifts every traveler that happens by with such finery? I do not know what you said to her to win her over, but she has championed you relentlessly, and countered every one of my protests. I could hardly hope to win against such an alliance.”

“I only told her the truth,” Oscar said quietly. “That I never meant to betray you, and that I am prepared to do anything necessary to be worthy of you again. Anything at all.”

All the humor fled from Wamba’s face, leaving something raw and pained in its place. “Oscar,” he whispered. “Oscar, please, if you think there is any chance that you might change your mind, any chance that you might one day want another, please say so now.”

“What do you mean?” Oscar frowned. “Of course I don’t want anyone else.”

“I know it is not fair to ask such assurances of you.” Wamba’s head dropped, and he stared at his hand where it was splayed on Oscar’s chest rather than look at him. “It’s just that, if I lost you again, I do not think I could survive it.”

Oscar’s heart seized, beneath Wamba’s trembling hand, and tears burned behind his eyes. He bent his head to bury his nose in Wamba’s hair and breathed out a sigh that was nearly a sob. This was Wamba asking for what he wanted, and fearful still, despite all his many declarations, that Oscar would not give it to him.

“Neither could I.” Oscar reached into his pocket and withdrew the little bundle that had waited there all night for just the right moment to be revealed. He dropped a kiss on Wamba’s crown and pulled his other hand free to unwrap the soft velvet and show Wamba what rested within.

The coin shone in the firelight, freshly polished. The runes stood clear and graceful on its surface. Edith’s solution to the dilemma of how it could be shared was elegantly simple and impeccably executed. A razor thin seam sliced the coin neatly down the center, each of the large runes split top to bottom without damaging any of the others. Only the thinnest ribbon of silver remained between, delicate enough to snap by hand. A small hole had been opened at the top of each half, and fine silver chains threaded through.

Wamba stared at it, then reached a tentative hand to trace the shape of the central rune. “Oscar, where did you get this?”

“Lady Edith,” Oscar confessed. “She insisted.”

“What does it say?”

“One is love and the other fidelity, though I’ve forgotten which is which,” Oscar said, a stinging flush stealing into his face. “I’ll ask Nicholas to help me translate all of it later. Though you’ll have to come with me. Once you put it on I don’t think I could ever ask you to take it off.”

Wamba looked up at him, his lips parted in stunned disbelief. “You mean this as a token?”

“What else?” Oscar smiled despite his burning cheeks. “I nearly married you once without realizing it. I thought I should do it properly this time. If you’ll still have me.”

He lifted the coin by one edge and offered the other to Wamba. His heart sped as dark eyes flicked down to Oscar’s hand and back to his face, more questions there than Oscar could answer in words. He hoped that this physical reminder, a proof of their promise that Wamba could carry with him, would finally quell some of those doubts. He lifted the coin a little higher, and Wamba hesitantly reached out to take the opposite edge between his fingers.

Carefully, they bent the halves down, until their knuckles brushed and the thin seam gave, two perfectly even pieces falling away in their hands. Oscar ran his thumb along the broken edge, smooth and clean. He stretched the dangling chain between his hands and lifted it between them, the half disc flashing as it spun in the firelight.

“I don’t know the proper words,” Oscar said, forcing himself to meet Wamba’s eyes, wide and shining as he knew his own must be for how his vision wavered. “I only know that I want to fall asleep beside you each night, and wake beside you each morning, and share every fortune with you. I promise to always protect you, and keep no more secrets from you, and to do my best not to be too pigheaded about things.” That won him a wet laugh, that sent a tear sliding down Wamba’s cheek. Oscar swallowed and forced himself to continue. “You know me as no other. You don’t have any illusions about my flaws and my faults. I give them to you, along with all the rest of me, for every part of me will love you and you alone for the rest of this life and the next. This is my pledge to you. Will you accept it?”

Another tear slipped free, trailing down to Wamba’s chin as he nodded. “I will.”

Oscar lifted the chain carefully over Wamba's head, with fingers spread to keep it from catching on his hair, and settled it on his neck. The coin lay neatly just over his heart. Oscar’s fingers sketched the edges of it, his own heart full to bursting with the throbbing delight of seeing it there. Then Wamba caught Oscar’s hand in his, and his throat bobbed as he gathered himself to speak.

“My heart has ever been a cowardly thing,” he said, soft into the space between them, “but the love it bears you is without measure. I ache each moment we are apart and am restored when you are near me again. I want nothing but to be this close to you for the rest of my days, even if I cannot often say it. So I promise to be brave for you, and trust that your love is steady, and when I have doubts to share them with you. I will do my best to protect you and provide for you anything you would ask of me, anything of which you have need or desire. Will you accept my pledge?”

“I will,” Oscar said, the words bursting from his throat before Wamba had even finished asking the question, spoken against Wamba’s lips as Oscar dove in for a string of fervent kisses. “I will. I will. I will.”

He managed to control himself enough to allow Wamba to lift the chain over his head. The weight of it settling on his neck was splendidly solid, a finality to it that sealed their vows and drew a peace down around his heart like a protective cloak. He grinned at Wamba, certain that he was about to fly apart at any instant from the absurd joy that ricocheted about inside him, multiplying endlessly and bounded only by that thin chain, that promise. Wamba was smiling, too, bashful and lovely with a blush spreading down his cheeks to his throat.

So Oscar reached for him again, both hands cradling Wamba’s face as he covered his mouth and took it for his own. Wamba opened to him, welcoming him with a low moan, but he did not yield for long. One hand slid up into Oscar’s hair, taking his short locks in an insistent grip while the other tangled in the chain he had placed about Oscar’s neck and tugged him closer by that tether, sending a jolt of arousal knifing through Oscar’s guts.

It spurred his hands into motion, to sweep down to the first stay of Wamba’s rich leather vest. It resisted his fingers, slipping unscathed from his grasp, but he refused to relinquish the kiss. He growled and sucked on Wamba’s tongue as he tugged furiously at it, until it finally fell free of its hook and he could carry on down to the next. Meanwhile, Wamba was doing the same to his belt, fumbling one-handed at the buckle while the other kept a tight hold on Oscar’s chain.

The belt gave before the vest. Oscar only distantly heard the clack of the buckle on the flagstones as it fell, for Wamba’s hand slipped beneath his tunic in the same moment, gliding up across his ribs and setting his skin alight before it plunged, bold and assured, down his belly and into his trousers. Oscar jerked, and only narrowly avoided biting Wamba’s tongue as cool fingers flowed down his cock and teased at the slit while the base of Wamba’s palm pressed against the root.

Oscar broke the kiss with a gasp, panting hot and fast into Wamba’s mouth, for Wamba still would not let him move away. He tried to marshal his concentration to the task at hand, but his hands hovered useless in the air above Wamba’s half open vest as his every thought was consumed by the pleasure that Wamba could wring so readily from him with just that simple caress. So Oscar surrendered to it, resting his brow against Wamba’s and making no effort to quiet the plaintive noises that issued from his throat as he was worked by that expert touch.

It was Wamba who finally broke that spell, as he stood and drew Oscar up after him by his two markedly different but equally irresistible holds. Oscar gripped him by the waist and kissed him again, unwilling to let any more distance than necessary open between them. They stumbled and wove awkwardly across the room that way, neither of them focused on their destination, until Oscar’s hip found the bed with a painful bump that startled them apart.

Wamba blinked at him, then at his own hand tangled in the chain, as though startled to discover that he was the one behaving in such a rapacious manner. Oscar did not give him time to doubt, making use of the reprieve to finish undoing the vest and shove it down his arms. Wamba finally released Oscar to let it slide off his wrists and drop to the floor. The pale blue shirt beneath left his neck and sharp collarbones exposed, so Oscar set upon them like a starving beast, turning the tables on him in an instant.

He wrapped one arm around Wamba’s waist and pulled him in tight to grind their hips together as he sucked hard at the skin of Wamba’s throat, worrying it with his teeth to leave another mark of his claim. Wamba gasped something that might have been his name, both his hands clenched tight in Oscar’s hair. The tug sent bolts of heat straight down his spine and into his groin. Oscar hummed happily into Wamba’s throat, and pulled away just long enough to admire the rising bruise before he dove down to start again on a new patch of unblemished skin and taste Wamba’s moan on his tongue.

This was what he wanted, this hunger that had been tempered by near constant reserve, the proof that Wamba needed Oscar as desperately as Oscar needed him. Years of forcefully silencing the small voice that wondered if Wamba did not merely humor him and his impetuous desires were finally being rewarded. He needed that proof, needed it in a way he had never before allowed himself to admit. So he resisted when Wamba tried to pull Oscar down with him to the bed, and stepped back instead to ask, “Do you have anything we can use?”

“There.” Wamba pointed across the room to the sideboard where Oscar saw, to his amazement, Wamba’s medicine chest from London waiting for him like a gift from above.

Oscar kissed him again, hard and adoring on swollen lips, before he bounded across the room to the chest. Lifting the lid, he was met by rows of familiar bottles, and one among them more welcome than the rest. Taking the smooth glass vessel in his palm was like greeting an old friend.

“You brought it with you?” he asked, tilting it to the firelight to watch the oil within slide sluggishly against the glass, more than enough for their needs.

“Farren does not know the difference,” Wamba said simply.

Turning back, Oscar found Wamba leaning against the bed, his hair finally freed of its tail and trailing loose past his shoulders, the ends just brushing the shining silver that rested on his chest. He extended one hand to Oscar, dark eyes warm and a welcome in his smile. Oscar could do nothing but stare at him for a long moment, his love a physical ache that echoed in his bones and deeper still, to center of his very being.

Wamba’s head tilted, and a faint crease of concern pinched his brows. Oscar quickly forced his limbs to move and carry him back to his lover. He took Wamba’s offered hand, sliding his own over the back of it to turn it up and press the bottle into his palm. He held it there, while Wamba’s frown grew more pronounced, puzzling out Oscar’s intent. The moment he understood, his eyes snapped up to Oscar’s as his lips parted on a quick indrawn breath.

“Oscar,” he breathed.

“It’s my wedding night,” Oscar reminded him, with a decidedly shaky smile. “Don’t you think it’s about time you deflowered me?”

It had the intended effect, startling a laugh from Wamba. His free hand reached up to caress Oscar’s cheek, settling tender on his jaw. “I’ve never done what you’re asking.”

“I know,” Oscar said, though in fact he had only strongly suspected. “I’m glad. I want to be your first, as you are mine.”

Wamba swallowed, his eyes gone soft at the words, though he still found voice to protest, "I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Oscar said, as certain of this as he had been of anything in his life. “I know you won’t.”

Wamba’s eyes searched his for any hint of unspoken reservations, but Oscar had none. He knew that every one of his thoughts was plain on his face, and he let Wamba read them as he would, waiting for him to make up his mind. When Wamba tugged him in close and kissed him, Oscar knew he had won.

He opened his mouth and let Wamba take control of the kiss, determined to show willing by his every action. He lifted his arms to allow Wamba to strip him of his tunic, and quickly bent to remove his own boots and trousers. His pendant swung back to rest on his chest as he did, cool metal on his flushed skin. Standing naked before his clothed lover, he could not help but wonder how he looked to Wamba. He had never suffered from any particular embarrassment over his body. It had always served him well, and he thought little of it beyond that. But he had never put it on offer this way before, and it was a frighteningly vulnerable feeling, waiting and hoping that his lover found it pleasing.

Wamba did not allow him to suffer for long. He hooked a gentle hand around Oscar’s nape and used it to pull him close, turning them as he did until Oscar’s legs touched the bed and he sat. It was just low enough that it gave Wamba the advantage of height, and he made full use of it as he set the bottle down beside Oscar’s hip and took his face in both hands to guide it up for a kiss. Oscar yielded to him, spreading his legs wider to allow Wamba press close between and hooking an ankle around his knee to hold him there. He kept one hand braced behind him to hold him up, while the other snuck around Wamba’s waist and up beneath his tunic, rubbing at the small of his back, where only a few scattered scars marred the smooth flesh.

Wamba shuddered like one of the freshly shorn sheep, and released Oscar’s mouth to shower reverent kisses across his brow and cheeks instead. Oscar closed his eyes and basked in that affection, until Wamba stepped away to shed his own clothing. Oscar dropped his leg to let him, and watched rapt, silently admiring his lean form as it was revealed. If he was somewhat thinner than Oscar liked, now was not the time to mention it. He reached for Wamba with both hands instead, pulling him back until he could wrap his arms around Wamba’s neck and demand another kiss.

Wamba obliged, taking his mouth gently while he wrapped one arm about Oscar’s back and leaned down on his hand on the bed, bending Oscar back so that his lover was all that prevented him from falling. It was an unusual feeling, giving himself over to another’s strength, but thrilling in a way he could not have predicted. He embraced it wholeheartedly, never doubting that Wamba was strong enough to hold him. Wamba broke the kiss with obvious reluctance, returning for a few last, lingering presses before he pulled back and looked Oscar in the eye.

“Are you sure, Oscar?”

Oscar tugged him back for a tight hug, awash in a heady mix of arousal and adoration. “I want you. More than anything.”

Wamba’s throat clicked. “Then lie back.”

Oscar did as he asked, shuffling up on the bed and resting his head on the pillows. Wamba crawled up after him, and Oscar immediately opened his legs to allow his lover to settle between. Wamba leaned down to kiss him again.

“Oscar,” he murmured, “if I do anything you dislike, anything at all, you must tell me.”

“You won’t.”

Wamba gave him one last, long look, before he lowered his mouth to Oscar’s throat. Soft kisses there, trailing down to his chest, set his body humming. Wamba took his time. He traced Oscar’s sternum with his lips and lapped at each of his nipples in turn, sending shocks through him and making him groan. The clever tongue darted next into his navel, and he was he was suddenly glad he had been thorough in his bathing. Then that thought and every other was banished as Wamba’s mouth reached his cock, warm breath setting swollen skin alight. Oscar’s head fell back and his hands fisted in the bedclothes as Wamba laved the head with the flat of his tongue, lingering there a moment before he swallowed Oscar down.

That was when the first touch came. It startled him, as he did not even know when Wamba had opened the bottle, but suddenly a slick finger was pressed against him, just lightly. It was an intriguing sensation, for he had never realized how much feeling was concentrated in this one small part of him. The finger teased him, circling round and round as Wamba worked his cock steadily in his mouth, the two pleasures combining to set everything below his waist tingling. In short order, he was whimpering for more, adrift in a fog of want as Wamba played him like a fine instrument.

The first intrusion registered as a quick burst of sparks, there and then gone. He gasped, body tightening on instinct before he relaxed and let Wamba in. The return was smooth and slick, a nearly effortless glide into a part of him that no hand had ever touched. Here, too, Wamba was slow and careful, allowing him ample time to accept it. Then another finger joined it, and another, and that was a sterner challenge, but the spike of pleasure as Wamba sucked hard at his cock was reward enough to offset it. Soon enough, his body capitulated to the new demand.

Oscar’s breath hitched, and he struggled to regain it, but he was being completely undone by the light, exploratory skim of fingertips against his inner walls. Or so he thought, until Wamba’s questing fingers brushed against something inside him that made his back arch and his vision flash white. He shouted, his hips writhing and legs thrashing as Wamba worried at that spot now that he had found it, brushing over it again and again until moisture was pooling on Oscar’s lashes and he thought he might scream or burst or both.

Then Wamba’s fingers and mouth were gone, leaving only the buzzing in Oscar’s veins and the ringing in his ears. He panted up at the ceiling, not entirely certain he had not come already. He had known there was a reason why Wamba enjoyed this, and made full use of it as his lover, but he never had any inkling that his body was capable of producing such a stunning pleasure.

“Alright?” Wamba’s ruined voice asked. Oscar blinked down at his flushed face, trying to find words to describe the morass of shock and bliss and pure, unadulterated want that boiled within him.

“Now,” he croaked, tugging Wamba up over him. “I want you to do it now.”

“I haven’t properly prepared you yet,” Wamba rasped, bracing his arms to resist as Oscar tried to pull him down for a kiss. His breaths came short and his eyes were so dark they were nearly black, just as desperate as Oscar, but fighting to keep control.

“I’m ready.” Oscar tugged him impatiently down. “I’m ready. I’ll never be more ready.”

“Alright,” Wamba said, gently but insistently removing himself from Oscar’s hands. “Wait a moment. Just a moment.”

Wamba tipped the bottle in his hand, pouring a shallow pool of oil into his palm as he slid off the bed to place the vessel safely on the chest. Oscar felt oddly exposed and shaky without him, slicked and stretched and his legs splayed in wanton supplication. He could not help the faint curl of shame as he contemplated what picture he must make. It gave him a new appreciation for what a weighty thing it was that Wamba gave him so easily, the trust required to allow another inside the most intimate parts of him. Then Wamba was there, covering him and filling that frightening space.

“You might find this more comfortable if you turn.”

Oscar looked up at him, considering. Wamba surely knew better than Oscar in this regard, but Wamba preferred to face Oscar when they coupled, and Oscar wanted to know what that felt like. He shook his head. “Like this.”

He reached for Wamba again, questing after that reassurance, and Wamba gave it, taking his mouth and kissing him softly, even as a blunt pressure made itself known where he was open and waiting. Oscar lifted his legs higher, hooking them up about Wamba’s back and crossing his ankles behind, offering himself to his lover as best he knew how. There was no fear, only anticipation and need as Wamba pushed, gentle but unrelenting, until Oscar’s body gave and he finally slipped inside.

They both cried out, mouths breaking apart. Oscar could not resist shifting his hips, testing this new sensation. It was uncomfortable, but not in a painful way. It was more that his body was being asked to stretch in a way it never had before, making room to accommodate his lover. Wamba was equally overcome by the novel sensation. His hair draped around his face, eyes tightly closed, he was incredibly beautiful, frozen in stunned pleasure. It was a joyful thing to welcome him, and Oscar reached up to trace his flickering features with the tips of his fingers. Wamba’s eyes fluttered open at the touch.

Oscar smiled at him. “I’m ready.”

Wamba barked a hoarse laugh. “Perhaps I’m not.”

“You are,” Oscar assured him, rocking his hips up and moaning at the way Wamba shifted inside him, a tantalizing hint of what was to come. “Please.”

That plea was all the enticement Wamba required. He took a deep breath, and rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate thrust, sliding out and back in, further than before until Oscar could feel his lover’s skin pressed against his rump and his cock was so deep Oscar was sure it had filled up every inch of empty space inside him. His mouth fell open, and stayed that way as Wamba followed one thrust with another, building to a cautious rhythm.

It was an odd, rolling pleasure, like slipping gradually into warm water, radiating out in lovely shivers from where they were joined. Then Wamba shifted up higher on his knees, forcing Oscar to bend even further to match him, and on the next stroke he drove into that magical little spot that shot forth ecstasy like a star. Oscar cried out, unashamed of the raw need in his voice as he teetered dangerously on the verge of completion. Wamba responded with merciless determination, making sure that the next pass and every one that followed drove Oscar higher, until he could do nothing but cling to Wamba and take every sensation that came.

The moment Wamba’s hand closed around his cock, it was over. Oscar wailed, and back arched so far he thought it might break as he poured himself out in the endless throes of a shattering climax. His throat ached as he gasped and groaned, riding out the shocks while they ebbed away and left only a profound satisfaction in their wake. That, and the awareness of Wamba perfectly still above him, and rigid inside him. Oscar forced his foggy eyes to open, and stared up at the strained face of his lover, looking back at Oscar with anxious eyes as he panted and struggled not to move.

Oscar had never adored him more. He reached up, cupping that dear face between his hands to pull Wamba down to him. Wamba went, their mouths meeting as the two halves of their coin tapped together in a high, sweet chime.

“Come on,” Oscar whispered against Wamba’s lips. “Make me yours.”

He drank down Wamba’s moan as he tightened his legs around him and coaxed him back into motion. It was too much, so soon after his climax, threatening to push him over into tears, but Oscar would not surrender. He wanted to make Wamba lose himself, to give him so much pleasure that he could not help but fill Oscar up with the proof of his want. He clenched down on the hot flesh within him, whispering words of encouragement until Wamba gasped his name on a sob. His rhythm faltered, and then wet heat was spreading within Oscar, and over his skin where hot tears fell on his shoulder.

Wamba collapsed, and Oscar caught him. He wrapped Wamba up in a fierce embrace and held him, both of them overwhelmed by the enormity of what they had done. Then Wamba was levering himself up on shaking arms, and worried eyes peered into Oscar’s. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“You never could,” Oscar told him, and laughed at the sound of his own wasted voice. “We should do that again. Very soon.”

The relief on Wamba’s face was beautiful to see. He leaned back in for a short, sweet kiss, before he carefully pulled back and free of Oscar’s body. It left Oscar feeling oddly bereft, as though his body would always now remember the shape of Wamba inside him, and want for it. He found he did not mind that thought. He sprawled out flat, stretching his limbs and his back with a gratified moan. Wamba chuckled at this display, falling limp to the bed at his side.

“I have to say,” Oscar said, “I am a bit annoyed with you.”

Wamba was immediately upright again, staring at Oscar in horror. “What? Why?”

“Well,” Oscar said, “all this time you’ve been keeping this for yourself, while you made me do all the hard work.”

Wamba blinked at him. Then his head tipped back and he laughed, bright and happy in a way that made Oscar’s insides squirm with delight. “My sincere apologies, Oscar. It really was unforgivably selfish of me.”

Oscar rolled over and toppled him to the bed, unable to help his spreading grin as he fingered the silver pendant that rested on Wamba’s chest. “Lucky for you, you have the rest of your life to make it up to me.”

That wonderful truth settled in his heart, and Oscar spared a moment to marvel at how far they had come. From slave and prisoner, thrown together by circumstance, to two men who gave themselves to one another of their own free will. There would surely be trials still ahead, enemies to face and obstacles to overcome, but those concerns were for other days. Now, he embraced his gratitude and reveled in the presence of his love, finally his to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex. Oscar is 20.
> 
> End Part Three


	71. Chapter 71

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, we end with a lengthy bit of backstory. Oscar and Wamba's story is not yet over, and will continue in the next installment. It will probably be the last major entry in this series, though I can never say for sure.
> 
> This takes place one year after the events of Ivanhoe.

_A hush hovered over the lists. The brisk autumn wind whipped the gay pennants adorning the champion’s tent. Keen chargers gnashed at their bits, snorting and stamping their readiness for the fray. The combatants, encased top to toe in gleaming armor, regarded one another across the distance through narrow slit visors. Between them, the liveried herald marched to the center of the field and extended his flag. As one, the spectators held their breath. Then the herald whipped the flag into the air, and turned to beat a swift path to safety at the edge of the lists. The riotous pounding of hooves was quickly drowned by the swelling roar of the crowd. The horses hurtled toward one another at breathtaking speed, each knight swinging his lance to bear and steadying it on target with not a moment left to spare._

_Cedric leaned forward in his seat, both hands clenched on the railing of the gallery as his eyes tracked the approach of the far figure with rapt attention. The two knights met with a mighty crash, the grinding of metal and scream of a horse announcing the gruesome outcome of their encounter. It was Wilfred who emerged victorious, and unscathed, as his opponent’s lance flew wide. Cedric thumped his fist down on the wooden railing with a crow of delight. Beside him, the king did the same. Down in the lists, Wilfred wheeled his mount about and raised the shattered end of his weapon in salute to the eminent occupants of the balcony, while the other knight lay groaning in the dirt and his squires scurried to his aid._

_The crowd roared in ecstatic adulation of its champion, but despite the commotion Cedric heard clearly the pointed sigh that issued from the vicinity of his elbow. He glanced down to the boy there, slouched on the edge of the dais with chin on hands, his morose mien at odds with the jacket of cheerful red and blue motley that marked his vocation._

_“What, Wamba?” Richard spoke across Cedric to ask. “Do you not find my tournament to your tastes?”_

_“Such tests of skill pass the idle hours as readily as any other noble pursuit, your majesty,” Wamba replied, “but it is poor entertainment when the outcome of every bout is decided afore the flag has even flown.”_

_“What new treason is this, knave?” Cedric growled at him. “Would you wish your sworn lord and the king’s own champion thrown down?”_

_The slow, sly smile tilted up at the Saxon melted his affectation of annoyance. Wamba knew well the boundaries of his license, and would push them only as far as his master’s humor would tolerate. “On a field of battle, never would I wish upon him other than that the weapons of his enemies be turned to feathers and their chargers to conies,” the boy said, “but upon this pleasant green, Uncle, it seems to me the height of ill courtesy that he should hoard every victory for himself.”_

_“Your fool is uncommonly bold, Lord Cedric,” said Lord Roger, seated on the king’s other hand, “and he might benefit by a lesson or two in knightly comportment.”_

_Wamba kicked his heels out and stretched his legs long, leaning forward with an insouciant smile. “Lessons I have had aplenty, my lord, though what use courtly manners make a simple clown remains to be proved, for I can scarce see how the greater courtesy would be to deny all of these other fine fellows even the scent of a chance at the prize.”_

_“Do not judge Wilfred too harshly for his eagerness to test his arm against these rivals, Wamba,” said the king, intervening before Roger could take offense. “It is a full year since he has had occasion to engage in any honorable contest at all.”_

_It was more than a year, in fact, since the last time Wilfred had competed at tournament, and under very different circumstances. Prince John’s spectacle at Ashby-de-la-Zouch had proven only the opening act to the long and bloody struggle that followed. By the time the throne was secure under the rightful king and the wheels of authority spinning as they ought once more, the seasons had turned in full and the summer was drawing to a close. Despite the lateness of the year, Richard had called for a month of celebration, and a new royal tournament as its crowning jewel._

_So they gathered at Blyth, now under the stewardship of Lord Roger, to watch as Wilfred competed under his own colors for the first time since his return to England. He was not the only knight standing for the king, but he was the undisputed champion, and nearly every challenger that day had chosen him for his foe. If they thought they might gain some advantage by the wearing away of his strength, they had so far been disappointed. Wilfred’s vitality only redoubled with each new bout. He tilted them down one by one, showing no sign of fatigue. Even now, as the next green young contender tapped the knight’s shield with the rounded tip of his lance, he spurred his horse gamely forward with an eager kick._

_“Their chance they have had,” Cedric said, “and in single combat no less.” As much disdain as he had once professed for this style of ostentatious Norman pageantry, he could not deny the father’s pride that came from witnessing his son’s prowess on the field._

_“I daresay no man among them would wish to win by any dishonorable means,” Roger said with a snort._

_“Truly a fascinating thing, this honor of which you speak,” Wamba said. “For my say, a victory is a victory, and no shame in the means. Why, even our fine sovereign has been known to employ a subterfuge or two to see his ends achieved.”_

_He was deliberately needling Roger, and Cedric knew he should not let the disrespect go unrebuked, but he was in good spirits after watching Wilfred defeat his many challengers so handily, and Wamba knew it. He reached down to deal the boy a cuff that turned inevitably to a caress. “Peace, knave.”_

_Richard laughed outright. “Perhaps you would care to take the field and show us what means a fool might employ to counter the charge.”_

_“A fool would make use first of his legs and be gone before the lumbering beast could come upon him, unburdened by plate or lance or shield.”_

_“Or bacon?” Cedric added._

_“Indeed. Or that.” Wamba grinned up at him, dark eyes laughing at the shared memory, and Cedric’s hand stroked over his bare head again of its own accord._

_“Oswald,” he called, “my cup.”_

_A wooden tray appeared beside him an instant later, bearing a goblet brimming with rich wine. He scooped it from the tray and deposited it in the hands of the boy at his feet._

_“There,” he said. “Entertain yourself with that and trouble us no more with your moaning.”_

_“Ah! This is a princely amusement indeed,” Wamba laughed, sitting up straight with the goblet cradled in both hands. He raised it to the king. “Your health, sire, and that of your champion.”_

_He put the cup to his lips, but took only a nip, hardly enough to wet his lips. Cedric chuckled, and waved him off when he offered it back, so he settled with his shoulder leaning against the arm of Cedric’s chair and the goblet tucked against his chest, a small, satisfied smile playing across his lips. Wamba had never attempted to make use of their private understanding to advance his position, asked no favors of his master but those granted in their bed, but Cedric could not help these small indulgences. It was not proper that his slave should sit at his high table, or ride beside him when they traveled out from Rotherwood, but he found propriety a simple enough sacrifice for the pleasure of the boy’s winning company. He had his reward in the loose contentment of Wamba’s body, how easy he was now in Cedric’s presence._

_The clarions proclaimed the next charge, and Wamba immediately put the lie to his protestations of boredom as he leaned forward to watch with eager eyes. Cedric’s gaze returned to the lists as well, just in time to witness the clash. The challenger landed a glancing hit, but Wilfred’s lance cracked across his shield. It swept him from the saddle and sent him tumbling down, to the joyful screams of the crowd, though this display did nothing to deter the next knight from approaching Wilfred as well._

_By the time the light began to grow long, Cedric had reclaimed his cup and Wilfred had vanquished another five foes. The king stood to wave him over. Wilfred danced his horse over to stand below the balcony and flipped back his visor. He was flushed and grinning. “Surely you will not declare the day over so soon, your majesty! I can take another ten comers before my arm grows weary.”_

_Richard laughed heartily. “Think to the melee and conserve your strength. They will have the advantage of you then, and the numbers to set upon you all at once. Besides, our esteemed arbiter of all things amusing has declared your interminable victories too tedious to bear further for a single day.” The king gestured to Wamba where he sat._

_“What?” Wilfred cried, clapping his gauntlet to his plackart. “Foul betrayal! You wound me most cruelly, Wamba.”_

_“Then at least one blow has struck against you today!” Wamba said, leaping to his feet and leaning over the railing to grin at Wilfred._

_“Fair point,” Wilfred smirked. “Very well, sire. I dare not quarrel with such a formidable foe. I shall retire and give the challengers a fairer fight on the morrow.”_

_“Best take care that they do not slip poison into your cup tonight,” Richard said. “It may be their only hope of victory.”_

_Wilfred laughed as he spurred his horse off to return to his corner of the lists. The heralds declared the day’s events closed in a blast of trumpets, while Cedric handed his cup off to Oswald and stood. “Come,” he said to Wamba, “let us go and congratulate him properly.”_

_Though the games had ended, the festival was only just beginning, as the crowd dispersed to enjoy the other entertainments on offer. The open fields around the tournaments grounds had sprouted tents like vivid mushrooms. Vendors of all stripes bawled out enticements to their wares, while jugglers and acrobats and players in fantastic garb wove through the crush, delighting the onlookers with their talents._

_“Perhaps I should put you to work to earn a few coppers,” Cedric remarked to Wamba, walking close just behind his shoulder. “It would be no more than you deserve for your cheek.”_

_It was an empty threat, and Wamba treated it as such. He laughed, low and warm. “Little wonder your noble son fights as fiercely as he does for the prize, Uncle, if your fortunes are so dire as to require my meager contribution.”_

_“Incorrigible thing,” Cedric said fondly, with a shake of his head. “Though you should have a care around Roger. It would appear he has no taste for your fancies.”_

_“He is as you say, my lord, a most dour and fusty man.”_

_“He is still your better,” Cedric said, more serious now, “and in a position to demand satisfaction should you give him reason. It is lucky for you that the king finds you amusing. That is some protection, at least, from your own foolishness.”_

_From Wamba there was no reply._

_Cedric snorted. “Come, I did not mean to silence you entirely.”_

_“My lord,” one of his guards said hesitantly._

_Cedric stopped, directing a frown at the soldier, who pointed beyond Cedric with a bewildered look. Cedric turned, wondering what mischief Wamba had concocted and readying himself to favorably receive the jest. He was completely unprepared for the sight of his jester standing stiff and still with a stranger’s hand wrapped about his neck._

_The man was no taller than Cedric, but much heavier, with a rough jaw and a shaggy mane of black hair. His bulk was swathed in a patchwork cloak cobbled together from tattered scraps of velvet. He growled in Wamba’s ear words that Cedric could not hear, and just like that, his cheerful, easy boy of mere moments before was gone. Wamba’s face went deathly pale, his eyes so wide the whites showed all around, and he began to tremble._

_Cedric strode toward them at once, letting his fury show on his face. “What is the meaning of this?”_

_“Lord Saxon, is it?” the man said, sweeping a bow that threw Wamba off balance and made him stumble. He was jerked upright again by the cruel hold on his neck, narrow chest heaving with growing panic. “You’ve got something that belongs to me.”_

_“I do not know who you might be,” Cedric said, forcing his voice to remain even, “but you are clearly mistaken.”_

_“He knows,” the man smirked, shaking Wamba. “Don’t you, boy?”_

_Cedric looked at Wamba, trying to discern what this man might be to him, but his face revealed nothing but his fear, and a desperate, silent plea for Cedric to free him from his captor. Cedric had no intention of doing otherwise._

_“Wamba is mine, and has been for many years.”_

_“Wamba now, is it?” the man sneered into Wamba’s ear, making him flinch away. “I suppose you thought you were clever with that, but it will take more than a borrowed name to keep me from knowing you.”_

_“Who are you?” Cedric demanded, clenching his fists to keep from reaching for Wamba and wrenching him from the cruel hands by force. “And by what right do you lay hands on my slave?”_

_“My name is Galen, my lord," the man said, "and this boy is mine by birth.”_

_“Galen.” Cedric would have dismissed the ridiculous claim at once, but that the truth was there in Wamba’s swimming eyes. This, then, was the master who had beaten scars into Wamba’s skin and nightmares into his soul. The master whose name he could not even speak aloud. The master Wamba had told him was dead._

_He looked on the stranger with new eyes, a hazy veil of hatred descending. “Unhand him at once,” he snarled, “or my men will do it for you.”_

_At his word, his guards stepped forward, their swords flying from their sheaths with a menacing rasp. They were beginning to draw the attention of the crowd, as people paused to look curiously at the brewing confrontation. Galen looked the armed soldiers over, then finally released Wamba with a shove. The boy staggered forward a pace and fell to his knees at Cedric’s feet._

_“You may have the advantage of me for the moment, my lord, but that boy is my property. He managed to escape me once, but I’ll not let him slip my grasp again now that I’ve found him.”_

_“I will not discuss this with you here,” Cedric said, painfully aware of their growing audience, “and I’ll not turn him over without a shred of proof.”_

_“The proof is there before you.” Galen pointed at Wamba, still huddled on the ground in a trembling heap. “One way or another, I will have him back.”_

_He melted into the crowd even as he spoke, leaving the threat hanging in the air like a foul odor. Cedric ordered his men forward with a curt gesture. “Go after him. Make sure he does not follow us.”_

_“Yes, my lord.” They were quickly off, leaving Cedric and his retinue unguarded._

_“And you,” the Saxon snapped, leaning down to grasp Wamba by one thin arm and hoist him to his feet, “will come with me.”_


	72. Chapter 72

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_The clanging of hammers and roar of forges melded into a distant din in Cedric’s ears, drowned by the rush of his own fury as he dragged Wamba through the ring of armorers and farriers skirting the cluster of the champion tents. His relentless strides made no allowance for the stumbling feet of the boy in his grasp, fueled by that wrath. He whipped aside the canvas barrier to Wilfred’s tent and stormed inside. There he stopped and slung Wamba ahead of him. The boy staggered and only just managed to keep his legs beneath him, coming to a halt with his arms wrapped about his middle and his back to Cedric._

_“Father?” Wilfred ventured. He stood half divested of his plate, his equally stunned squires gawping at this unusual scene._

_“Out,” Cedric barked._

_“But, Father,” Wilfred tried again, looking back and forth between Cedric and Wamba._

_“Get out!”_

_Cedric’s tone brooked no argument, and while Wilfred might once have been incautious enough to object, he had learned well enough with time and experience when Cedric was of a disposition to be appeased and when his protests would result only in stiffer consequences as a result._

_“I’ll be just outside,” Wilfred said, and though his eyes did not leave his father, Cedric suspected the reassurance was directed at the trembling boy who wavered between them like a guttering candle flame._

_The squires scurried after Wilfred, and the tent flap fell closed, leaving them alone. Enclosed in that dubious privacy, Cedric did not mince words._

_“You told me your master was dead,” he growled._

_Wamba’s shoulders hunched higher, and a whisper issued from his throat. “My lord, I will swear that I never said as much.”_

_“Do not equivocate with me!” Cedric roared. He seized Wilfred’s helm from the table and flung it down upon a pile of discarded weaponry with a jarring crash. “If you did not say it outright, then you deliberately let me believe it so.”_

_There was a brief shuffle of movement at the tent flap, but it did not open. Cedric watched Wamba shrink further upon himself, fearful of his master in a way he had not been in months. If he could, no doubt he would have contrived a way to fold himself so small as to disappear completely. The sight jarred Cedric, to such an extent that he forced himself to take several slow breaths, letting his shock and anger cool. Whatever his past deceptions, the terror on Wamba’s face when he was in Galen’s grasp had been real, and Cedric’s fury had only compounded it. A fury that he could admit, at least to himself, was tinged with no small amount of panic at the thought that another might have a claim to his cherished boy._

_He reached for Wamba, only to see him flinch away from his hands. He waited a heartbeat before he laid them on Wamba’s shoulders again, and slowly turned him. Wamba’s followed, but his arms remained locked about his own body and his gaze did not rise from the packed earth beneath his boots._

_“You told me that you were not a runaway,” Cedric said, forcing calm authority into his voice. “Was that a lie as well?”_

_The shake of Wamba’s head was emphatic. “No, master.”_

_“Do not lie to me,” Cedric warned him, giving him a none too gentle rattle._

_“It is the truth master,” Wamba said. “I did not lie. I swear it.”_

_Cedric studied him, trying to gauge his sincerity. He found it in the few tears that tracked their lonely paths down his cheeks, a despised symptom of his anxious heart that Wamba never willingly revealed._

_“You will tell me everything,” Cedric said, “and spare no detail.”_

_“Yes, master,” Wamba whispered. He took two deep breaths, and began to speak. “He led a troupe of players, as I have said. There were some few slaves, and I among them, but most followed him by their own volition. When entertainments were not enough to satisfy him, they engaged in banditry as well.” Wamba’s eyes flicked up to Cedric’s and quickly away. “That was not my role. I was taught the skills of a tumbler, but their purpose was to attract the eye of wealthy men. Those with particular desires who would pay to indulge them.”_

_Much of this Cedric had known or guessed already, but the knowledge did nothing to dull the ache of hearing Wamba state it so plain. He could not stop the hand that slid up Wamba’s shoulder and curved about his neck, a comforting touch that by no coincidence blanketed the same skin that the brute’s foul paws had defiled. It was far past the time when Cedric could conscion any hand but his own on that vulnerable throat._

_“He preferred the north,” Wamba went on, in that same quiet voice in which he delivered all of his confessions. “We did not often come as far south as the Greenwood. Only twice that I can remember. It was on the second visit that he sold my services to Lord Malvoisin.”_

_“Malvoisin?” Cedric interrupted him. “Philip? You never said that you had a previous acquaintance with him.”_

_“I doubt he had any recollection of me. Our dealings were brief. He discovered that I was still torn from the previous night. It disgusted him, so he gave me to his guards instead.”_

_Wamba trembled beneath Cedric’s hands as he cast his memory back, and Cedric wished suddenly that the king had not granted the Malvoisin brother such a merciful execution already, for he dearly desired the chance to wet his blade in the Norman’s guts._

_“When they came to retrieve me the next morning, Lord Malvoisin refused to pay. He said as he had been unable to enjoy me himself, the agreement was null.”_

_“I take it that Galen did not receive this news favorably,” Cedric said quietly._

_Wamba heaved out a ragged breath. “He did not. He was enraged, so much so that he beat me with his fists rather than his strap. By the time he was done, I could not stand upright. I think someone might have offered to carry me, but he would not have it. He kicked me off the path into the forest and left me there.” He lifted his eyes to Cedric at last, red and earnest with a plea shining clear. “I told you the truth, master. I did not run. He threw me away.”_

_His voice cracked on the last words, and Cedric was powerless but to draw him in, cradling the boy’s head in his hand and brushing a soothing touch along his spine. Little wonder that he should seek to make himself of use in every possible way, or that he should choose the safety of Cedric’s collar over freedom, when he harbored such a fear of being cast off alone into a world he knew to be full of monsters._

_Wamba clenched his tunic in trembling fists, his brow pressed to Cedric’s chest. “Please don’t let him take me, master,” he whispered. “Please”_

_All trace of Cedric’s anger bled away, and he knew only the desire to reassure. “Of course not,” he said firmly. “If he thinks he can still lay claim to you after all that he did, then he does not know what battle he has courted.”_

_Yet it was one matter to know his own heart, to know with utmost conviction that nothing would prevent him keeping Wamba from those cruel clutches, and another to consider what proof might be offered to counter his claim. Wamba had been inspected for any identifiable marks of ownership anywhere on his person before the magistrate would issue a writ officially binding him to Rotherwood. Of course, Cedric could now confirm himself that Galen had left no clear proof on Wamba, but there were other forms of evidence he might produce and other arguments he might make to disprove Cedric’s claim. One detail of the tale Wamba had recounted was of more than trifling significance._

_“Gurth said that he discovered you within the borders of my lands. Where he found you was where you fell?”_

_“I did not move from that place. I did not expect to rise again.” Wamba shuddered against him, and Cedric clasped a hand tight about the back of his neck to steady them both._

_“Then he abandoned you within my domain, and therefore I have first right. If everything happened as you have said, then he has no legal claim to you.”_

_“It did,” Wamba said. “I swear it did.”_

_“I believe you,” Cedric assured him gently, and caught him close again as a sob tore from his throat. He hushed the boy, murmuring into his ear, “Thank you for your honesty. I know the memory did not come easy.”_

_“Father?” Cedric darted a glance to the tent flap to watch Wilfred step inside. He had removed the rest of his armor, and his visage was grim. He spared a worried look at Wamba before he met his father’s eyes again. “I’ve had the report from the men, though I can scarce believe their words are true.”_

_“Where did he go?” Cedric demanded._

_Wilfred shook his head. “They lost him in the crowd.”_

_“Damn their faulty eyes,” Cedric spat. “How do they lose sight of a man dressed as garishly as that?”_

_“Perhaps he knows some trick to disguise himself,” Wilfred shrugged. “It matters little at this point. What will you do?”_

_“I will see him off with all prejudice,” Cedric said. “Violently, if necessary.” Wamba shuddered in his arms, his face still hidden against his master’s tunic, so Cedric held him closer._

_“A public confrontation?” Wilfred frowned. “It is not only Wamba you risk by such actions, but your name as well. If he chooses to make slanderous accusations against you publicly, you will not be able to refute them.”_

_“He may say whatever he likes, and my name be damned,” Cedric said, “but I doubt it will reach that point. A man of his stripe is sure to be appeased by gold.”_

_“You would pay him? For something that is not his to give?”_

_“I have wealth enough to spare a pouch if it will see that his shadow never falls on me or mine again.”_

_“You might better spend it on an assassin, in that case,” Wilfred said ruefully, “for I do not think he will be banished so easily as you imagine, not once he knows he has his hooks in you.”_

_“Wilfred is correct,” Wamba whispered. “He will betray any oath he makes. He will destroy whatever he can without scruple.”_

_Cedric looked down at him, his flushed face suddenly stricken as he contemplated what damage Galen could do, would do without hesitation to meet his own ends. Even as Cedric watched, the fear shifted to a tortured sort of determination._

_“I can see the thought you are having,” the Saxon growled, “and I warn you that the consequences will be dire if you dare to speak it aloud or even to consider it further.”_

_“It would resolve the problem, at not risk to your name,” Wamba whispered, his face graying even as he voiced the words._

_“So will a sharp knife, and I will consider that first.”_

_“If I go with him…”_

_“Speak no more of it!” Cedric snapped, grasping him by the shoulders and treating him to a furious glare. “I will challenge him to single combat before I will agree to such a thing. I cannot risk any carelessness until this threat is quelled. I do not doubt he has no scruples in the methods he might use to capture you. You will return to the keep and remain in my chambers until I have spoken to the king.”_

_Wamba simply stared at him, eyes wide and mouth a tight, unhappy twist._

_“Do you understand me?” Cedric insisted._

_“Yes, master,” Wamba murmured at last, dropping his eyes._

_“Good.” Cedric pressed a fierce kiss to his bowed head, there with only Wilfred as witness, before he turned and led the way outside. The Rotherwood guards were gathered there, talking quietly with Wilfred’s men._

_“You there,” Cedric called to the exceptionally tall one. “What was your name?”_

_“Farren, my lord,” the big man rumbled._

_“That’s it,” Cedric nodded. “Take Wamba back to the keep. You are not to let him out of your sight until you have delivered him to my chambers. Is that clear?”_

_“Yes, my lord.” Farren said, extending a hand to beckon Wamba to him. The boy went, with one last worried glance at his master._

_Cedric could not offer further reassurance, but his eyes followed them as they disappeared. Wamba’s slender form was dwarfed by the soldier at his side, the massive gloved hand that came to a rest on his back to guide him. It was a sight Cedric remembered well from the slow days after Torquilstone, when Wamba was learning to walk again, with this soldier beside him. At least he did not need to worry for the man’s loyalty. Still, Cedric waited until they had passed out of sight before he turned to go to the feast._

_The tents for the king’s official entertainment had been erected in the field below the keep, lit by clusters of blazing torches in the gradually lowering dusk. They were crowded to overflowing with a colorful conglomeration of nobles in their finery, servants bearing platters and ewers, and entertainers of all stripes. Cedric wound his way through the crush and took his place at what amounted to the high table, though there was no dais. He reached at once for his cup, and cursed to find it empty._

_“Oswald!” he snapped, wagging the cup over his shoulder. It was ignored, and he grumbled, “Where the devil has that misbegotten creature disappeared to?”_

_“No cupbearer to attend you, Cedric?” the king asked jovially. “That is a disgrace I cannot allow to stand at my table. Here, let us share mine.” He waved one of his servants over to fill Cedric’s goblet with crimson wine._

_The Saxon immediately took a grateful drink, and breathed out a long sigh as he leaned back in his chair. “My thanks, your majesty. I have sore need of this comfort this evening.”_

_“As you must, for I see your jester has abandoned you as well. You should be less careless with your servants, Lord Saxon, for at this rate you will be cooking your own dinner tomorrow.”_

_Cedric snorted. “For Wamba, at least, I know where he is to be retrieved. I have sent him back to the keep.”_

_“Oh?” Richard cocked his head curiously. “There was no need to banish him for Roger’s sake. There was small offense done, I am sure, if that was your concern.”_

_“No, indeed it was not, sire,” Cedric said. “We had a disagreeable encounter and I thought it better that he take the evening to rest.”_

_“What sort of encounter was this?” the king asked, his brow drawing down._

_“I had no intention to tarnish this gathering with the unpleasant tale, sire,” Cedric said quickly. “We can speak of it at a later time.”_

_“Now you have assured that my curiosity will nag until I hear this tale to which you refer,” the king said._

_Cedric nodded his reluctant assent, taking another deep drink before he quickly recounted what had transpired, and his concerns about how and when Galen might choose to challenge him. The king listened intently, gazing out across the crowd with a serious mien, and when Cedric had finished he clapped his cup down onto the table with a decisive air._

_“Allow me to put your mind at rest here and now, Lord Saxon,” Richard said. “Whatever proof this man might seek to offer, it is your claim that will be upheld. I can promise you that.”_

_These were the very words that Cedric had been hoping to hear, though he fought to keep the utter relief from his face and instead bowed his head solemnly to the king. “You are most gracious, sire, though this is hardly the quality of conflict in which it is appropriate for you to take such personal concern.”_

_“On the contrary,” the king said, lifting his goblet and waving it to be refilled, “it is most assuredly personal to me. Wamba has done me great service, lest we forget, and I am not so churlish as to treat his loyalty as lesser in worth because of his station. If there is a threat to his safety, I will happily intervene to thwart it.”_

_Cedric huffed a relieved laugh into his cup. “As there is every advantage to me in accepting your backing in this, I will not protest further. Thank you, sire.”_

_“Excellent!” Richard said, thumping his fist down on the table with a grin. “I do love a victory. Speaking of which, let us turn to the more pressing topic of how Wilfred plans to take on every challenger at once in the melee!”_

_Cedric found it much easier to enjoy the conversation, and the festivities, once that worry was laid to rest. Wilfred joined them presently, accompanied by the other champions, and they passed the evening in pleasant enough company. Cedric did not even reprimand Oswald when he finally appeared to tend to his duties, though he was mindful of how many cups he consumed. He was eager to return to the keep and tell Wamba of the king’s assurance, certain that this would be welcome news to him._

_It was nearing midnight when the king finally retired, freeing his guests to do the same, though many remained and would likely carry on their revels until dawn. Cedric had no heart for such merriment, his mind turned instead to the quieter comforts that awaited him in his chambers. He opened the door quietly, not wishing to wake Wamba if he had been able to rest, and looked about in the light of the dimming fire._

_The bed was undisturbed, the blankets lying neat atop it. Likewise, the chairs stood empty, tucked beneath the heavy table. Cedric frowned._

_“Wamba,” he called quietly. “Where are you, child? There’s no need to hide.”_

_He was met with silence. His eyes flew about the room once more, darting from shadow to shadow in search of the shape he sought. They fell instead on a flicker of light where none should be, a tiny reflection on the bed table._

_Cedric took three steps toward it, his legs heavy with dread, and reached out to take the familiar shape in his hand, running a thumb along the engraved words. He clasped the ring tight in his fist, his heart drumming a heavy beat against his ribs, and looked again just to be sure. It rested in his palm, the silver long cold, and Cedric knew._

_Wamba was gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of physical and sexual abuse of a child.


	73. Chapter 73

_“How? How could this happen again?”_

_Cedric paced out his fury before the fire, a relentless march that had yet to spend the desperate energy that thrummed through him, though hours had passed and it was now full morning._

_“The men are looking, Father,” Wilfred said, his face haggard from his own worry and the sleepless night. “Let us wait to hear their report.”_

_“I should never have let him leave my sight,” Cedric said darkly, turning and striding back toward the far wall once more. “I should have foreseen that his bedamned sacrificial tendencies would get the better of him.”_

_“Little matter make now those things we might have done,” Wilfred said reasonably. “We will not cease to look until we have found him.”_

_Cedric’s fist clutched tight around the shape of the ring he could not quite decide to relinquish. “And when we do, I will wring his neck myself for this brazen treachery.”_

_Wilfred sighed and crossed his arms. “You know that if he left, he only did it to spare you an ugly public confrontation. Misguided as they might be, his actions were undoubtedly taken with your interests at heart.”_

_“Then I will teach him the error of his judgment with my own hands. What battles I choose to fight and how I choose to fight them are not for him to decide. He knows better than to run from me.”_

_“My lord?” A timid voice interjected._

_Cedric snapped around, impatient for a report, but it was only one of Wilfred’s squires who hovered anxiously in the corridor. He snorted with disgust and resumed his pacing, exhausted of any patience to spare for the frivolity of the tournament._

_“I’ll be there shortly, lads,” Wilfred told the boy. “See that they carry on without me for the moment.”_

_‘Yes, my lord.” The squire quickly disappeared, fleeing the strained atmosphere of the chamber. Wilfred leaned against the wall at his back and glowered at the window, abdicating the role of appeaser of his father’s mood, to which he had ever been thoroughly ill-suited. A heavy silence fell over them, measured out by the constant thumping of Cedric’s boot heels on the flagstones and punctuated by his intermittent obscenities. His hand clenched spasmodically around the ring, shaking with the force of his grip. Finally, to prevent himself crushing it, he slipped it onto his own small finger. After regarding it silently for a moment, he continued pacing._

_The tension had wound tight enough to snap by the time another set of tramping steps grew loud in the corridor. Cedric turned, and Wilfred stood straight just as the guard appeared in the doorway._

_“Well?” Cedric demanded._

_The man bent in a deep bow. “No news, my lord. We’ve asked throughout the keep and all the outbuildings. No one has seen him. He is not in the castle.”_

_Incredulous fury drew a blinding veil of red down over Cedric’s vision. “Of course he is not in the castle!” he roared. “Have you wasted all these hours poking about in the cellars rather than locating his means of egress?”_

_“It was on my orders that they did so, Father,” Wilfred said, stepping between Cedric and the cowed guard. “We must not be hasty and risk overlooking any possibility.”_

_“Quite right, Wilfred,” Richard’s voice added itself to the fray, as the king himself arrived. The guard quickly scurried from the doorway, clearing the path for him to enter. He looked between Wilfred and Cedric, taking in their state of disarray. “I have been informed that there was quite a stir while I slept.”_

_“Wamba has gone missing, your majesty,” Cedric said, adding with venom, “again.”_

_“Truly, a most troubling development,” the king said gravely, “but it would appear the search for him proceeds apace.”_

_“Now that the castle has been cleared, I will send the men out to the festival grounds,” Wilfred said. “There are any number of places he might be concealed in that chaos.”_

_“You will spend all of them there?” Cedric growled. “And if he is already away?”_

_“Then we will be in pursuit by day’s end,” Wilfred said, “but until we have exhausted every possibility and gathered every clue to be found here, it would be wasted effort to venture further.”_

_“I will order my soldiers to the search as well,” the king said, “and while they are busy about that, let us to the tournament grounds to see this business through to the end.”_

_“You propose that amusements should take precedence at such a time?” Cedric said, only just holding to his temper._

_“For once I agree with my father,” Wilfred said, rolling his shoulders wearily. “I do not think I can participate in the melee today. There are enough contenders to provide adequate diversion without me.”_

_“The people have come to see the king’s champion fight,” Richard said sternly. “We cannot deprive them now.”_

_“Sire,” Wilfred protested._

_“What good has your fretting and waiting done thus far?” the king asked. “Let the men search. By the time the tournament ends, they will be prepared to report what they have learned.”_

_Thus commanded, Wilfred went to find his squires and prepare, and Cedric grudgingly followed the king to collect his retinue and make their unhurried way to the balcony overlooking the lists once more. Easily two score knights milled below, what turf remained after the joust trampled beneath the hooves of their high-strung mounts. Cedric sat, but his heels tapped restlessly against the wood of the dais and his fingers drummed an irregular beat against the arms of his chair. Wamba’s ring caught the sun as he did, drawing his attention to his own hand._

_The wild cheering of the crowd heralded Wilfred’s arrival, but Cedric spared his son no more than a glance as the knights sorted themselves into their respective ranks according to some precedence. He stared at the unassuming silver band instead, and forced himself to acknowledge that what churned within him was no longer fury, but a pure and sickening fear. There was no limit to the torments that might have been inflicted on Wamba already in the scant hours since his disappearance, no telling what he might suffer at that very moment, as Cedric sat useless and surveyed a mock battle that served no purpose but to entertain the simple-minded throng of glutted peasants that jostled about at the edge of the field. It was a betrayal too far, of one whose boundless loyalty had driven him into the arms of certain harm too often already._

_He was half out of his chair, intending to go and join the search himself, when the king’s hand clapped down hard on his wrist. “Let the men see to it, Lord Saxon,” he cautioned Cedric quietly. “I promise you every resource necessary to see him found and returned, but obey me now and keep your place.”_

_“What possible purpose do I serve by remaining here?” Cedric snarled, wrenching at his arm to free it. The king only tightened his grip._

_“You give every appearance that nothing is out of the ordinary, as does Wilfred.” Richard tipped his head in the direction of the crowd. “You prevent questions and rumors among them, and thus the conjuring of false memories, for I promise you that every one of them will recall seeing Wamba, and each in a different place and circumstance, once they know he is sought. There will be rumors enough flying about by the time we are done. For now, remain in your seat and allow the searchers to go about their task without burdening them to sort truth from misinformation.”_

_Slowly, Cedric subsided, defeated by the sense of the king’s argument. He knew well the gossiping ways of the commoners and how readily they could muddle the truth. Trapped and resentful of it, he reached for the first comfort that came to mind. “Oswald,” he called, “where is my cup?”_

_His summons went unanswered, and Cedric turned to cast a menacing glare over the handful of retainers gathered behind his chair. There was a collective shaking of heads and murmuring of apologies for the absent butler._

_“Damn that lazy wretch!” Cedric spat. “Have I not a single obedient servant left to me? Someone go and locate him! I swear he has earned himself a flogging with this disgraceful truancy.” He slumped back into his chair without bothering to see if his order was followed, and glared out across the field._

_“Appearances, Cedric,” the king reminded him, just as the clarions blared and the two artificial armies charged at one another across the field. The contest descended quickly into havoc. Men bellowed and blunted blades clanged as they met shields or heavy plate. Cedric had little patience to keep track of which side might have the advantage. He saw Wilfred tumble from his horse, but he was quickly up again with sword dancing, warding off the attacks that flew at him as fast as they came._

_They soon began to fall, heavily armored forms toppled to the turf, where they lay until their squires or servants could rush and drag them from the field. Though many writhed and moaned as they were carted off, many more hung limp from rescuing arms. This continued for the better part of an hour, by which point the field had narrowed and the last dozen contenders doing battle in weary single combat. Then a soldier in the king’s red livery came dashing around the outer edge of the crowd and leapt up the stairs to the royal balcony._

_He dropped to one knee beside Richard’s chair and panted out, “Begging your pardon, your majesty, but I have urgent news.”_

_“Yes, what is it?” the king asked, never taking his eyes from the spectacle below._

_“Sire, Lord Roger’s men have found a body.”_

_Cedric’s lungs seized, and for a moment he felt as though he floated outside of himself, unable to command his voice to speak._

_The king’s head turned and he demanded, “Who?”_

_“One of the castle guards, sire,” the soldier reported. “His throat was cut and he was thrown in a gully below the fortifications.”_

_The wave of relief that washed over Cedric was mortifying, for a life had been lost, albeit not the one that was most precious to him in that moment. At least not yet._

_“Do they know where he was killed?” the king asked._

_“His commander says he was stationed at the northern gate near where he was found,” the soldier said. “It’s small. Just a door for the servants carrying out refuse and paupers begging a meal, really.”_

_“Such mouse holes allow in more trouble than they are worth in convenience, for my say.”_

_“Were there any witnesses?” Cedric asked. The soldier looked to him, and back to the king, who nodded._

_“None have come forward, my lord. The servants are still being questioned.”_

_“Very well,” Richard said. “Return and instruct whoever has the body to leave it as it is. I will be up to look at it myself once the tournament is concluded.”_

_The man sketched a bow and swiftly disappeared back the way he had come. Cedric returned his attention to the field, startled to discover that only three contenders remained. Wilfred was taking on both of the others at once, fighting admirably though his steps were unsteady and the swing of his arm was somewhat sluggish from his fatigue._

_“It would seem we have an interesting new wrinkle to our mystery,” Richard said to Cedric. “It is difficult to imagine Wamba murdering a guard and concealing the body.”_

_“Difficult indeed,” Cedric said, his mind racing now with the possible explanations. He watched dispassionately as Wilfred spun and jabbed the hilt of his sword up into the chin of one opponent, knocking the man backward like a felled tree. The other took the opportunity to attack his unguarded back, and Wilfred was driven to his knee. The crowd gasped, and the challenger raised his sword to deliver the decisive blow, but Wilfred swept out a leg and tumbled the man to the dust beside him, laying the dulled edge of his blade against bare strip of skin beneath his helm. The knight quickly surrendered._

_It was a magnificent victory, but Cedric could muster no more than a perfunctory smile. The king took pity on him, and concluded the games with all due pomp but no unnecessary ceremony, and in short order they were standing over a twisted body laid out in the garrison infirmary._

_The guard was young, a scattering of patchy whiskers on his graying skin. The front of his livery was stained nearly black with the blood that had poured from his wound. Someone had closed his eyes, but his anguished pose spoke clear enough of how he must have suffered as he died. Still, Cedric could not entirely banish the relief that it was not a more familiar set of features there._

_Richard leaned down to examine the bloody wound on the boy’s knobbed throat. “This is clean work,” he said somberly. “Whoever took his life is an experienced hand.”_

_“Then there was treachery in the castle last night,” Cedric said._

_“Of that there is no longer any doubt,” Richard agreed, “but whether the aim of this villain was your jester or some other end cannot be said with certainty.”_

_“Father!” Wilfred flew into the room. “You must hear this!” He was clad still in his gambeson and dirt was streaked across his cheeks. He was followed by the soldier from the day before, who dragged a struggling third man by the collar of his tunic. Cedric was startled to recognize him as his butler Oswald. A dark bruise stood out on his cheek and blood leaked from the corner of his mouth._

_“What is the meaning of this?” Cedric demanded. “I ordered him found, not brutalized. Wilfred, has your man lost his mind?”_

_“Farren,” Wilfred said urgently, “explain.”_

_“This is his doing,” Farren said, shoving Oswald forward._

_“This?” the king asked, pointing to the body._

_“No!” Oswald cried. His flinching eyes leapt from Cedric to Wilfred to the man who held him. “I do not know what he means, my lord. I did not kill anyone!”_

_“You know how it came to pass,” Farren said, looming over the cowering servant. “You know where he went.”_

_“My lord, I know nothing. I swear it!” Oswald’s imploring eyes turned on Cedric now._

_“What cause do you have to accuse my servant?” Cedric asked Farren._

_“I returned Wamba to your chamber as you commanded, my lord,” Farren said. He shook Oswald by the scruff. “As I left, I passed him coming the opposite way. I did not think anything of it until this morning. When questioned, one of the maids recalled witnessing them leave your chamber together.”_

_Cedric frowned. “Is this true, Oswald?”_

_“No, my lord! I did not even speak to Wamba last night!”_

_“Yet you were not at your post at the feast,” Cedric recalled. “What was of such important to keep you from your duties?”_

_“I… my lord…” Oswald stammered, his eyes darting about the room. A bead of sweat began to trickle down his temple, and for the first time Cedric entertained the idea that Farren was correct._

_“That is not the face of an innocent man,” the king noted. “Shall we send for the torturers to extract the truth from him?”_

_“Torturers?” Oswald whimpered. “My lords, I have done nothing wrong.”_

_“You have borne Wamba an ill will for years,” Wilfred said, advancing on Oswald, who shrank back as far as Farren’s steel grip would allow. “I know it was you who put those bruises on him when he was still new to Rotherwood. I thought you had outgrown your childish grudges, but it seems I was mistaken. What have you done now?”_

_“I did what needed to be done!” Oswald burst out, his shout sending Wilfred back a pace. His jaw set into a defiant jut, eyes two glittering coals of hate. “He’s a leech, a shameless bootlicker. He’s an embarrassment to Rotherwood and to you, my lord!”_

_Wilfred swore violently, and stretched a hand toward the younger man’s neck, but Cedric stopped him with a grip on his arm._

_“You were the one,” he realized, speaking even as the fractured fragments of understanding began to resolve into a whole. “You betrayed him to Malvoisin.”_

_“He should have died!” Oswald howled, straining uselessly against Farren’s hands._

_“You lured him out of the abbey,” Cedric said, “and because he did not remember, you were able to do so again here.”_

_Cedric had known Oswald since he was a child, counted him among his inner household for years, but looking into his eyes now he saw only a stranger, a man consumed by hatred. This was Malvoisin’s snake, the one Cedric had been so certain must be a fiction, and close enough to Cedric’s bosom to end his life at any moment he so chose with no more than a drop of poison. The depth of that betrayal was almost too great to fathom._

_“What did you do to him?” Cedric stormed past Wilfred to seize Oswald’s tunic in both hands and snarl into his face. “Where did you take him?”_

_“Still you think only of him?” Oswald stared at Cedric with bright, desperate eyes. “Have I not been your loyal servant? Have I not stood by you every day and performed every service you asked of me? I would have done more! Anything! And yet you favor him over me. That idiot.” He spat the last word, and Cedric could not stop his hand._

_It flew, knuckles cracking across the servant’s cheek and sending a new spray of blood flying. “What did you do to him?”_

_Oswald spat a mouthful of crimson spittle to spatter on the floor, and bared his bloody teeth. “I told him you had summoned him. I told him to where to go, and I told that man Galen where to wait.”_

_Cedric grabbed him by the throat, wrenching him from Farren’s grasp. “And this?” He thrust his other hand into Oswald’s face, the ring just before his eyes. “Is this your doing as well?”_

_Oswald choked, his eyes bulging and one hand closing on Cedric’s wrist._

_“Tell me!” Cedric roared._

_Oswald’s head rocked in a desperate nod._

_“You would have had me think him a traitor.” Cedric’s clawed hand tightened in a crushing grip._

_“Father,” Wilfred’s voice cut through the fog of rage. “There is more he needs to tell us.”_

_Cedric spat a curse, and threw Oswald down. He collapsed onto the floor at Cedric’s feet, clutching his throat and gasping in wheezing breaths._

_“I want this man in chains,” he said, his voice carefully measured but no less ripe with fury._

_“We will question him here before we take him back to Rotherwood,” Wilfred said, as Farren snatched Oswald up to his feet once more._

_“And you,” Cedric said, staring coldly into Oswald’s eyes. “Pray for his safe return, for if he dies, so will you.”_


	74. Chapter 74

_The search of Blyth was fruitless. While a number of the gathered merrymakers remembered seeing Galen and his troupe of some half dozen ragged men prowling the festival, and several of those complained of purloined purses as a result, every one of that band appeared to have vanished the same night Wamba was taken. On the second day, they located a brewer come tardy to the festival who remembered passing such a company as they sought upon his arrival, but he could tell them nothing but that the men had departed toward the west. He did not recall any person of Wamba’s description among them, though they carried a number of sacks and packs with them. On that scant information, Wilfred set men to follow the trail west, and the search continued._

_Oswald was entirely worthless. He vacillated between fear and bitter resentment, chained in a rear stall of the stables for lack of a proper cell to house him, and spewed vitriol at every opportunity, but he had precious little knowledge that might tell them where Galen made his den. Oswald’s purpose in betraying Wamba was truly no more than to punish him for his intimacy with Cedric, and he felt no remorse for the outcome._

_After three days, as the festival drew to a close and the masses dispersed, Cedric had no choice but to return to Rotherwood without Wamba, and none closer to recovering him._

_“Do not despair, Lord Saxon,” the king told him as they bid one another farewell in the manor yard. “I have pledged men to assist in the search, and Wilfred is an able commander. We will find him yet, and see his abductor duly punished.”_

_“Your generous aid is most welcome, sire,” Cedric said. Unable to mask his agitation, he added, “though my own uselessness in this effort hounds me ceaselessly.”_

_“Bide your time,” Richard advised, “and spend your energy where it will be of most use. It is a wide net we cast, and until the villain is located, there is no telling where and when your presence will be truly irreplaceable. All that can be said for certain is that you will be needed when the time comes to retrieve Wamba.”_

_Though he recognized the wisdom in it, this counsel did nothing to calm the writhing dread within Cedric, or the visions that assailed him each time he closed his eyes, of Wamba broken beyond even what he could repair. Sickening as it was to contemplate, there was small comfort in the knowledge that the depths of Galen’s cruelty meant that he would not be quick to end Wamba’s life. The race now was to find him while there was still enough of him left to save._

_It was his own fear he saw reflected in the faces of his servants as he returned home. He was not so blind as to fail to notice how Rotherwood’s people enjoyed the softening of his temperament that Wamba had wrought. They dreaded the return of the bitterness that had colored his world for so long, as much as they were troubled by the loss of Wamba himself. The preoccupation consumed him, day and night, and he knew he was not alone. Gurth’s eyes, in particular, fell upon him with dark resentment that he had not seen since he had given the man his freedom, and Rowena took to avoiding him entirely. By the time Wilfred arrived three days later, Cedric’s temper dangled by a single thread._

_“Well?” he demanded, before his son’s feet had even touched the ground._

_Wilfred shook his head. “Nothing yet.”_

_“Nothing?” Cedric echoed incredulously. “How is it possible that you have spent a week on searching and found nothing?”_

_“The man we seek is some manner of ghost, it would seem.” Wilfred glanced around the yard, at the soldiers and servants that watched them. “Let us speak privately, Father. I will tell you all there is to hear.”_

_Cedric’s nerves grated, but he acquiesced and led the way to his study adjoining the great hall. “Well?” he asked once they were alone._

_Wilfred went to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine before falling wearily into one of the chairs around the table. “You found a replacement for Oswald, I take it?”_

_“Nora has the kitchen boys taking turns at it,” Cedric said. “I’ll not be hasty to fill so vital a post again.” He waved an impatient hand to dismiss any further pleasantries. “Now tell me what you’ve learned.”_

_Wilfred set his cup on the table and reached down to undo the pouch at his belt. He dug inside, lifting out a handful of folded leaves of parchment. He dropped them onto the table, where they scattered like autumn leaves. “I have ordered the men to send reports daily. They are doing so, but thus far they have learned nothing of consequence. Galen’s trail is lost just west of Blyth, at Maltby.”_

_Cedric’s hand fell on the notes, his clawed fingers crushing dry parchment between them. “Do you mean to tell me that a company of no fewer than seven men, of plainly criminal aspect, has disappeared into the countryside without a trace?”_

_“I have no other explanation,” Wilfred said, a weary slump to his shoulders. “They have passed through no town, purchased provisions from no merchant, taken rest at no inn that we can locate. It must be they travel rough, keeping away from the roads. I have sent men to inquire among the serfs in the fields surrounding Blyth, but it will take days if not weeks to question them all.”_

_“Weeks?” The strength fled Cedric’s legs, sending him down heavily into his chair. “He does not have weeks, Wilfred.”_

_“I know. I am truly sorry that I cannot tell you more.” The sympathy in Wilfred’s eyes as he looked at his father was unbearable for Cedric._

_“What of the men the king promised?”_

_“They are given, and searching every shire south of the Greenwood as we speak.”_

_Cedric stared at the white knuckles of his hand, clenched around the crumpled parchment. “There is nothing more that can be done?”_

_“We can only wait now,” Wilfred said, “and pray.”_

_Cedric would scorn no aid, earthly or divine, if it would see Wamba returned, but he could sit idle no longer while others worked to see that end achieved. He looked again to the reports in his hand, and an idea sparked. “Rowena may take on that task, as she is most suited to it. I will be damned if I will sit in idle prayer while he remains a prisoner. Get up, Wilfred. Help me find a map.”_

_It took several hours of searching in the shambles of the study, but at length they unearthed what Cedric sought. The map was tattered and yellowing, the borders drawn upon it remnants of an earlier era, before the great princedoms of England had been carved to bits and doled out piecemeal to the horde of Normans intent on draining the wealth of the land to fill their foreign coffers. Cedric had preserved it in the stubborn hope that some approximation of that lost realm might one day be restored. Now, he sacrificed it ruthlessly to a new wish, one much more immediate and closer to his heart even than the dream of a new Saxon dynasty._

_He carried the immense scroll back to his chambers, and crucified it upon his great table with a dagger in each corner. Then he flattened the reports Wilfred had brought one by one, and marked the location from which each had been sent with a clear, bold mark upon the weathered hide. It was painstaking work. Not every town bore the same name as it had prior to the invasion, and some were too small to be represented. Cedric drew upon his own knowledge of his home to fill those voids, and slowly the true scope of the search began to take shape._

_The marks were heavily concentrated around Blyth, as was to be expected, fanning out more broadly to the west, and from there to the south. Cedric threw the last report aside and stood with both hands planted firmly on the table top, studying it with narrowed eyes. The purpose in Wilfred’s method was immediately evident, but something about the pattern rankled, a festering unease that he could not dismiss._

_A sudden knock distracted him from his protracted stare. “What is it?”_

_“Begging your pardon, my lord,” said Nora, shouldering open the heavy door. She bore a tray in her arms, with a covered dish and a jug upon it. “You did not come down for supper, so I’ve brought you something to eat.”_

_“I did not request any such thing,” Cedric grumbled, while silently acknowledging the hunger that had come upon him unawares while he was absorbed in the map._

_“It’s important to keep your strength up,” Nora said reasonably. She bustled past him, only to stop short. “Oh, but you’ve covered the whole table.”_

_Cedric pushed out one of the chairs with an irritable kick. “Put it there and leave me in peace.”_

_She set the tray down, but did not leave, leaning over to examine the map for a moment before she looked up at Cedric. “You search for him.”_

_“Of course I do,” Cedric snapped at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did you expect me to relinquish him so easily?”_

_“No, my lord,” Nora said, standing straight and folding her hands before her. “I know Lord Wilfred has sent men to find him. I know you will both do all you can to bring him back to us.”_

_“Then what possible cause can you have for complaint?” He looked to the map again, turning away from her knowing eyes._

_“You are not well, my lord,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “You are worrying yourself to exhaustion. We can all see it.”_

_“Then I will do so without suffering such presumptuous censure!” he snapped at her. “What right have you to judge how I choose to handle myself?”_

_“Your wellbeing is the wellbeing of every one of us,” she reminded him calmly._

_“I know well my duty. I have no need to be reminded of it by you.”_

_She took a slow breath, released it in a sigh. “My lord, if he does not return to us...”_

_“Say not such things!” Cedric roared, turning a furious glare on her as his hands clenched into fists._

_“If he does not return to us,” she said more firmly, “you cannot let yourself be consumed by grief. I watched you succumb to that pain once. I do not wish to see it again. More important, he would not wish that fate for you.”_

_Cedric could contain his frustration no longer, and began to pace before the fire. “How can you abandon him so easily? Have you no faith? Does he mean so little to you?”_

_“He means more to me than you know, my lord. He is as dear to me as any of my own, and if I must I will mourn him as such, but I will remember first and always the light he brought to my life.”_

_Cedric turned, taking note for the first time of her red-rimmed eyes and drawn face. “You mourn him already.”_

_“I do not,” Nora said, with a slow shake of her head. “I fear for him. For what that man can do to him, has already done to him. I remember him, my lord, naught but bruises and bones and too frightened to take a cup of milk from my hand. I remember him scrubbing pots in my kitchen unasked, in the dead of night, because he could not understand that a kindness did not come with a cost. I want to believe that what we have given him will be enough to see him through this, but the wounds of childhood are the deepest, and he bears so many.”_

_Cedric stared at her, stricken by how closely her thoughts mirrored his own. She took a step, and reached out to clasp Cedric’s hand in both of her own. She looked down, at Wamba’s ring on his finger, and her face crumpled._

_“Bring him back to us, my lord. Please bring him back, but please do not let everything he gave you pass away with him if you cannot.”_

_Her work roughened palms pressed tight to his skin for a moment, before she released him a took her leave with a murmured farewell. Her words lingered, washing through Cedric and forcing up the bleak awareness of the one possibility that he had staunchly refused to contemplate, that Wamba might never return to him at all. He lowered himself slowly down into his chair, and covered his eyes with one hand to shield them from the sudden sting of the firelight._

_The presumption of Nora’s words shook him, for he realized that she had spoken clearly what he could not. He did not often contemplate what Wamba was to him. It had taken a year of watchful care, and a greater measure of patience than Cedric had afforded any other, to earn the boy’s trust and, more precious still, his open affection. Cedric did not in any way resent him for it. On the contrary, the sweetness of the reward was more than sufficient to repay his efforts, a dearly prized fulfillment that he had never hoped to regain after his wife’s passing, born in the most unlikely of places. If he had hesitated to name it for what it was, it was only because Wamba had never asked it of him, even if the truth of that emotion pulsed within every look, every word, every touch shared between them._

_It was the thought of that delicate peace shattered that fueled Cedric’s nightmares, the fear that Wamba might be ever lost to him, in spirit if not in body, leaving only consuming emptiness and the memory of what might have been in his place. And yet, Wamba had come to him once, and Cedric kept faith that he would do so again._

_It could be no mere luck that Wamba had been left on Cedric’s land, abandoned there to be found. It was at Rotherwood that he at last found what he needed to become the person he was meant to be, and Cedric was privileged to witness the beauty of his generous spirit unfold like the petals of a young rose beneath gentle sunlight. Wamba was meant for Rotherwood, and they for him. It was the work of some power greater than Cedric could fathom that Galen departed from his usual paths enough to bring him there._

_A jarring thought sent Cedric upright in his chair. His hand fell away from his face, and he stared at the map with new eyes. He rose slowly to his feet, taking in what he was seeing now in the pattern of marks._

_“North. He prefers the north.” Then he was striding to the door, throwing it open to bellow down the corridor. “Wilfred! Wilfred, stir yourself at once!”_

_It was not Wilfred’s door that opened a moment later, but Rowena’s. Cedric watched his son emerge in a state of general dishevelment, but he had no thought to spare for an apology._

_“Come in here at once,” he commanded, turning and striding back to the table before Wilfred had any chance to question him. He stared at the map instead, a grim smile rising as he confirmed anew what he had discovered._

_“Father?” Wilfred asked, stepping up beside him. His eyes widened as he took in the map. “Is this what has kept you occupied in here all night?”_

_“Yes,” Cedric said, “and now I know where you need to send your men.”_

_“What do you mean?” Wilfred asked, frowning at the parchment._

_“Here,” Cedric stabbed his finger down into a tract of empty farmland to the north and east of Blyth. “Send them to question the people here.”_

_“We’ve already inquired at all of the inns and markets there,” Wilfred said, pointing to the marks Cedric had made around the edges of the little patch of blank parchment, “and that’s the wrong direction in any case. They were last seen traveling west.”_

_“Yes, and you have found no trace of them since, despite spending every man there,” Cedric waved at the profusion of black to that speckled the left side of the map. He tapped the blank patch again. “He spends the greater share of his time in the north. Wamba told me as much. He will seek a road back to his familiar haunts. Send your men here.”_

_Their eyes locked, and Wilfred abandoned his brewing protest in the face of his father’s insistence. He nodded instead. “Alright. I’ll send new orders first thing in the morning.”_

_Cedric’s first impulse was to insist that he do so at once, but he allowed reason to prevail. He released Wilfred to return to his wife and ate his supper with renewed appetite. It was two days later that the word he had been hoping for arrived._

_“You were correct,” Wilfred told him, handing the newest report into Cedric’s hands. “One of the families there discovered a horse missing. Another saw a group of men traveling through the fields by night. They must have left Blyth to the west to put us off their scent and then circled around to the north.”_

_“Where are they now?” Cedric asked, dashing a hasty eye over the parchment._

_“My men are tracking them,” Wilfred said. “We will know more tomorrow.”_

_“And Wamba?”_

_“The witnesses profess that it was too dark to make out any face clearly.”_

_“So they cannot know for certain that the men they sighted are the ones we seek,” Cedric said, letting the report fall to the table._

_“Not yet,” Wilfred said, “but this is more than we have found so far. I believe we might dare to hope a little.”_

_“I will hope when I know where he is to be found,” Cedric said._

_Tidings arrived in a trickle, each day a new discovery, another crumb for them to follow. One day it was a plundered cellar, the next a robbery at knifepoint, then a stolen boar. Cedric marked each carefully on the map, tracking a trail north. Then, at last, Wilfred burst into his chamber wearing a smile as sharp as his sword._

_“They’ve found him.”_

_Cedric was on his feet at once. “Where?”_

_“Outside of Barton. Near the coast. It appears Galen has occupied an abandoned farmstead. My men have been watching from a distance, but they do not want to arouse suspicion by drawing too close.”_

_“Barton is less than a day’s ride from here.” Cedric said, laying his finger on the map where the farm should be. It was excruciating, the thought that Wamba had been so close all this time, and yet they had taken such a tortuously long road to find him._

_“It seems he has more brutes than those that accompanied him to Blythe,” Wilfred said. “I need two days to gather my men back. Then we will go in force to retrieve him.”_

_Cedric planted his fist in the map, at the end of the trail. “And I will be going with you.”_


	75. Chapter 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_They made their approach at dusk, creeping along a muddy berm that divided the wood from the strip of fallow field adjoining the farmhouse and its outbuildings. Even by the fading umber light, their state of disrepair was readily apparent against the purple sky. The thatching was pocked with holes, shutters hung askew from dimly lit windows, and the entire rear half of the barn was collapsed in on itself like a vacant suit of armor._

_A pair of heavy shouldered men in rough furs stumped about the yard, kicking at the base of a mound of crates. Wilfred stopped, and Cedric did the same, dropping to one knee beside his son. Their horses were half a league behind them, tethered under a single guard. They both held their swords unsheathed at their sides, as they observed the two bandits poke and grunt a short distance away. Wilfred’s men, thirty strong, fanned out to either side of them, crouched low behind their scant cover. Wilfred’s raised hand commanded them to hold, and they fell still, patiently awaiting the knight’s next order with only the faint mist of their breath to betray them. Cedric could not share their calm restraint. He leaned up and over the berm, bracing himself on the damp earth with his free hand as his eyes searched the darkening gloom for any clue that might point him to where Wamba was to be found._

_Wilfred pulled him back down to concealment with a gloved hand on his shoulder. “If you are sighted, the game is up before it has begun,” he said quietly. “We must make an ally of the night if we are to ensure no undue harm befalls Wamba.”_

_“No more than what has befallen him already, you mean,” Cedric growled, shrugging off his son’s hand. “He has been left to the mercy of these savages for three weeks now, thanks to your shortsighted methods.” Regret nipped weakly at his conscience as he spoke the harsh words, for Wilfred was not the true object of his ire. He was due more credit than any of them for pushing forward the search, but Wilfred merely ihuffed and shook his head._

_“I will make my apologies to him on bended knee for it, if you wish, but pray keep your place. One more hour makes slight matter in the course of three weeks.”_

_“And if it is the hour that mongrel chooses to end his life?”_

_“That is precisely the result I wish to avoid with a mite of caution,” Wilfred said evenly. “Dark will be upon us soon enough. And look, our quarreling has spent a good share of the remaining light already. They are going inside.”_

_The two bandits in the yard were indeed moving toward the farmhouse now, twin shadows shuffling along with the shape of a crate suspended between them. They were nearing the door when they paused and turned their heads to the uneven track that threaded through the field beyond. Cedric looked to see what had caught their attention. His eyes made out the approaching shape just as the rising drumbeat of hooves reached his ears. Wilfred was immediately on guard, the tip of his sword rising as he tracked this newcomer with sharp eyes._

_It was a single horse, though heavily burdened by the pounding thump of its canter on the marshy loam. Its rider reined it to a lumbering halt in the yard, bellowing at the men there. “Have you not even minds enough to light a torch, you shiftless worms? No doubt you’ve been soaking yourselves in drink while I spent my day hunting down this miserable cur.”_

_Cedric’s lip pulled up in a snarl. There was no mistaking Galen, nor the shape that he heaved away from the horse’s neck and flung to the ground like a sack of grain. The flash of gold and pale skin in the light of the torch hastily produced from within the farmhouse only confirmed it. Cedric’s heart shuddered within him at his first sight of Wamba. The boy wheezed on the ground, clad in no more than a short shift of tattered sackcloth, thin limbs exposed to the autumn chill. Galen swung down from the saddle, shoving the reins into the hand of the closest ruffian as he bent to seize Wamba by the hair and shake him._

_“I’ll not be taking any more chances with you, boy,” he barked into a wan face that Cedric could not quite see clear, Wamba’s features blurred by distance and the unsteady light. Then Galen was dragging him by that cruel hold, stumping off toward the barn while his captive kicked and struggled to prop his legs beneath him, to no avail._

_Cedric did not realize that he was on his feet and atop the berm until Wilfred’s hands closed on his arms, his urgent voice whispering in Cedric’s ear. “Father, stop! Wait!”_

_“Will you witness that and tell me not to put an end to it?” Cedric snarled, hot rage boiling in his chest and at the corners of his eyes as he flung a hand out toward the abhorrent scene playing out before them._

_“Please, conceal yourself!” Wilfred’s hold was implacable this time, wrenching his father back down to shelter. “Galen will not kill him now if he has gone to the trouble of tracking him and returning him here.”_

_“Truly, war has made you more heartless than I could have imagined,” Cedric said coldly, his shaking hand clenching on the hilt of his sword in time to the wretched stagger of his heart._

_“It pains me, too,” Wilfred said, his eyes begging Cedric to reclaim his reason, “but for the sake of his life, wait but a few moments more.”_

_Cedric knew he spoke prudent counsel. The two bandits still in the yard would raise the alarm at once at the approach of any armed man, and Galen might well slay Wamba rather than allow Cedric any chance to reclaim him. Their best hope rested in exercising patience and taking the vile gang unawares, but Cedric knew with equal certainty that he could not live with the consequence if their delay cost Wamba his life._

_Thrumming with that terrible urgency, he returned to his place beside Wilfred and took up the watch once more. The man holding the torch propped it in a sconce beside the farmhouse door, then bent to retrieve the abandoned crate and drag it inside, every movement as sluggish to Cedric’s impatient eyes as though he waded through honey. His companion led Galen’s horse into the barn. The bandit emerged a short time later, and entered the farmhouse, but Galen remained inside, presumably alone now with Wamba._

_Still Wilfred waited, while silence settled over the farmstead and Cedric ground his teeth together, silently cursing this excess of caution. Then, finally, Wilfred nodded and stood. Cedric was on his feet at the same moment, already moving up and over the berm as Wilfred turned to issue curt orders to his men. “Farren, with us. The rest of you, to the farmhouse. Surround it. Take everyone you find inside. Any man who resists forfeits his life.”_

_The soldiers nodded in unison, and crept off on swift, silent feet toward the farmhouse, only the faint jangle of muffled mail to mark their movements. Cedric did not watch them go. He firmed his grip on his sword and made haste toward the dilapidated barn. Wilfred was quickly at his heels, moving with the same urgency that drove Cedric. He eased ahead of his father as they reached the barn door. It bore a heavy bar, but it was raised and the portal stood slightly ajar, light flickering deep within. Wilfred propped his shoulder against it and eased it open, one hand braced flat on the planks to still any tremor that might betray them._

_Straw scattered the earthen floor within, casting webbed shadows in the low torchlight that filtered through the gap they had opened. The long space was truncated abruptly where the roof collapsed in on itself, fractured bones of wooden beams supporting what thatching remained at precarious angles. It was from this far recess that the light of another flame emanated, and with it the unmistakable sound of a lash._

_The sharp snap made Cedric recoil, his skin crawling as though it wished to slip away from his body entirely in horror. Wilfred was alert at his side, taking one careful step forward to settle his boot silently atop the straw and peer over a low wall to their right. Farren was doing the same to the other side, moving with remarkable stealth for a man of his size as he inspected the shadows for lurking danger. Cedric let them, his attention focused now on the rumble of Galen’s voice, too distant yet to make out his words. It was followed by two retorts in quick succession. If Wamba made any sound, it was too faint to reach his master._

_Cedric’s blood boiled within him, but he forced himself to move slowly, sidling along the wall until the torch was above him, and he could at last crane his neck to observe the alcove beyond. It might formerly have been home to some beast or other, but there was no livestock to be seen now, only Galen’s broad back and a wicked strip of black leather dangling from his hand._

_“You never did learn that there is no use running from me,” Galen said, his voice a low, mocking sneer. “Where did you think you could go that I would not find you? There is no help to be found here. The Saxon does not want you anymore. Why do you think he sold you to me? This is your only purpose now, a useless little whore like you.”_

_A growl woke low in Cedric’s throat at this brutal lie, one that had doubtless been repeated endlessly to Wamba for weeks. His hands itched to abandon his sword and close about the monster’s throat, to choke the life from him and commit that vile soul to hell with his own hands._

_He would have leapt, but for the whisper that slipped past Galen and stopped him still. “He did not.”_

_Galen scoffed a contemptuous laugh, and lifted his strap with clear menace. As he did, he stepped aside, and suddenly Wamba was revealed to Cedric’s eyes. The boy was bound by his wrists with a rope that stretched up into the decaying rafters. His hands hovered above his head, the bindings forcing him up onto his knees, drawing his whole emaciated body into a vulnerable curve for the brutal attentions of the strap. His sackcloth had been taken from him. He wore nothing but the angry wheals that blanketed flesh stretched taut across stark bones. His feet on the cold stone floor were torn and bloody, his legs streaked with filth, and just the sight of him, alive and with a defiant spark by some miracle still alight in his eyes, was at once the most agonizing and the most welcome that Cedric had ever beheld._

_Then Wamba’s eyes closed, bruised face contorting in fresh pain as Galen brought the strap down, once across his back and again over the curve of his shoulder. He made no sound. Cedric nearly stepped from his concealment to put a stop to the horrible display, but once again it was Wilfred who pulled him back. Against every instinct he had, Cedric subsided, consenting to wait for the moment when Galen could be taken unawares._

_“What a pathetic creature you are. How you cling to your precious illusions. You thought he actually cared for you, but we struck our bargain the very hour you were away. He was glad to be rid of you. Cost me no more than a half decent cart horse. After all, what use would a man of his standing have for a soiled little bit of filth like you?”_

_There was no doubt that Galen knew precisely what to say to best torment the boy. What little of Wamba’s spirit remained uncrushed visibly writhed under this cruel derision. Tears leaked from his closed eyes, but he opened his mouth to say again, in a whisper, “He did not. He would not.”_

_Galen’s face contorted as he wheeled around and swung the strap. It dashed the tears aside as it flew against Wamba’s cheek and left its wicked mark there. “Stubborn little wretch. I know how to shut you up.” He cast the strap away, and fisted his hand in his Wamba’s hair instead, the other pawing at his trousers. “Keep those teeth away unless you want me to knock them from your head."_

_Cedric understood what he meant to do a mere instant before the quiet sound of Wamba choking found his ears. Red clouded his vision, and he shook off Wilfred’s hand. This was a thing Wamba hardly did for Cedric himself, and even then only under very precise conditions, so fraught was it with horror for him. And here now was the man who had put that horror into him, who would steal so casually that which was never his to take. This, finally, Cedric could not allow to continue._

_He stepped forward into the light, and leveled the edge of his sword against Galen’s throat. “Step away.”_

_The smirk on Galen’s face fell away, eyes narrowing as they took Cedric in, and Cedric very deliberately did not let his gaze leave the man’s face as he pressed the blade closer, drawing a thin line of blood. Galen’s eyes widened. “You.”_

_Cedric saw him tense, preparing to a fight, but Wilfred appeared on his other side, clubbing Galen hastily at the base of his skull with the hilt of his sword. One blow, delivered with sufficient rancor, was enough to fell him. His eyes rolled back in his head as he slumped. It was Farren who caught the dead weight, pulling Galen’s body aside and throwing him down on the floor with prejudice. He braced one massive boot in the unconscious man’s back as he wrenched both arms behind to bind them._

_"Master?”_

_The wavering query tore at Cedric’s heart, and he let himself look at last. Wamba’s eyes were on him, wide and fathomless in his battered face as he stared at Cedric. His features were slack with shock, and he blinked as though he did not quite trust what he saw, but he was there at last, alive and by some blessing unbroken._

_The flood of relief carried Cedric quickly to Wamba’s side. Wilfred was there, too, sawing at the rope that bound the boy with his dagger. Cedric dropped down to his knees in the dirty straw, and caught Wamba as he fell, easing his arms down slowly. Wamba was still staring at him as legs folded and his hands fell limp to his lap, his eyes fixed on Cedric’s face. He began to quake, narrow chest heaving in a gasping sob. “Master?”_

_"Yes, child. I'm here." Cedric drew the boy into his arms, and Wamba fell against him, trembling so violently Cedric feared he might fly to pieces altogether. He clutched his slave close, in an embrace so tight he knew he must be hurting Wamba, but he had could not command his arms to loosen. “I have missed you so very much.”_

_Wamba shuddered against him, one timid hand reaching out to touch. But suddenly, to his dismay, Wamba began to push away from him, trying to sit up under his own power. "I'm not clean, master."_

_It was true, and utterly insignificant, except that it was so very like Wamba to think first of Cedric even here, even now when it was he whose need was most pressing. Relief bled across a complex tangle of exasperation and exultation as Cedric pulled the boy tight to his body. "What care I for that now? What matter makes it when you are whole and here before me?"_

_Wamba subsided against him with another sob, a fistful of Cedric’s tunic clutched in his shaking hand as he wept. He was terrifying frail, reduced by privation until there was hardly sufficient flesh to cover his bones, and Cedric ached for how the frigid air must bite him, how he was denied even the comfort of some means to cover his nakedness._

_He ghosted a caress down the tacky skin of Wamba’s back, taking exquisite care to be gentle with him, but there was no safe place to lay his hands that did not bear some injury. The wheals that covered him were in various stages of healing, clearly without the benefit of any curative. They were layered upon one another, from his shoulders to his knees. Greater horror still was to be found in the blood, and worse, that streaked his legs. Cedric did not try to examine him there, but slid his hands searchingly over the boy’s feet and ankles in search of injury. He could detect no broken bones, but Wamba’s skin was damp and cold._

_“Father.” Wilfred stepped around where Cedric could see him. “We are going out. Join us when you are ready.”_

_Cedric nodded, wrapping one arm tight about Wamba’s waist to reach out to his son with the other. “Leave your cloak.”_

_Wilfred quickly whipped the wool garment from his shoulders, pressing it into Cedric’s outstretched hand. He looked over Wamba with darkening eyes, and he said quietly, “Take whatever time you need.”_

_“Thank you, Wilfred,” Cedric said, hoping that his son understood all that he meant._

_Wilfred tipped his head in a brief acknowledgement. Then he was gone, taking Farren and the unconscious Galen with him. Alone now, without concern for who might overhear, Cedric tilted his mouth to Wamba’s ear._

_“Every word he spoke to you was a lie. We never stopped searching for you. We came here as soon as we knew where you were to be found. You must know I would have given anything I possess to reclaim you from him even one moment sooner.”_

_“You promised.” Wamba’s voice was ravaged, no more than a hoarse whisper. He took a hiccupping breath. “Not for any price. You promised.”_

_“I did,” Cedric agreed, rocking him softly. He knew it would take more than tender words to counter the memory of Galen’s cruel lies, but he did what he could to fan the weakened flame of Wamba’s faith. “I did, and you did so well to believe me.”_

_“I tried to get back,” Wamba told him, new urgency in his words. “I found a way out, but I do not know where this place is, and I could not find anyone to help me.”_

_Cedric stilled, shocked that Wamba would fear Cedric might blame him for not succeeding in freeing himself from the clutches of that madman. But there was no room for censure here, no place for any words that did not give comfort, so he cupped his hand about the back of the boy’s neck in a gentle hold. “Thank you, Wamba. Thank you for trusting me. And thank you for coming back to me, back to where you belong.”_

_“He took my ring,” Wamba confessed, a tremor of shame in his voice. “I do not know what he did with it. Forgive me.”_

_“Oh, child,” Cedric murmured, “there is nothing to forgive.”_

_For the first time, he slackened his embrace, and showed Wamba his hand. The silver band that Wamba had mourned rested there, as it had for all the days Wamba was lost to him. Cedric’s heart would not allow him to remove it until he could return it to its rightful place. He slipped it from his finger now, and laid it in Wamba’s palm. The boy’s fist immediately closed around it._

_Cedric folded his own hands about his slave’s. “Will you wear it?”_

_Wamba nodded, and tried to lift the silver band, but was thwarted by the exhausted muscles of his trembling arms. Cedric took it from him instead. He lifted Wamba’s hand and slipped the ring carefully into place. He twined their fingers, and brought them up to seal the symbolic reclaiming with a brief kiss to Wamba’s knuckles._

_Dark eyes stared at him, welling with fresh tears. Cedric could not gather a smile, but he met that gaze frankly as he wrapped Wilfred’s cloak about bare shoulders, pulling it close and securing it around Wamba’s body. There was so much in Wamba’s eyes that he could not yet address. This reclamation was only the first step. Before him now lay all the work of healing Wamba. No small task, but it began by removing him from this place._

_“There is an inn no more than an hour from here. You can rest there tonight.” They had passed by it on their way and found it to be satisfactory._

_Wamba's eyes dropped away. “Master, can we,” he said, then seemed to think better of asking._

_Cedric tilted his chin up with a gentle hand. "What is it?"_

_Wamba swallowed, and rasped, “May we not go home?”_

_It was many hours to Rotherwood. Were they to travel all night, they would be fortunate to arrive by noon, and it meant that Wamba would be forced to forego all care for that much longer. All of this Cedric knew, but the longing in Wamba’s words, the plea as he turned his eyes to his master bore only one response. Cedric was not certain he could deny this boy anything any longer. He reached for Wamba, wrapping him in his arms again. “Very well. If that is what you wish. Let us go home.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for semi-graphic non-consensual m/m sex (rape).


	76. Chapter 76

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_The road back was as long as Cedric feared._

_They were slowed inevitably by the pains that must be taken for Wamba’s injured state. Wilfred sent one of his men running for their mounts while the rest were engaged about trussing the score of filthy bandits that had survived the ambush. Cedric paid them little mind, but to make absolutely certain that not a man of them laid eyes on Wamba, nor he on them. He oversaw the construction of a makeshift sling, fashioned of a blanket fixed to the saddles of the two of the more complacent horses, and ensured that Wamba was as comfortably settled in it as he could be, before he mounted his own beast. They traveled with only a light guard, leaving the greater number of soldiers to aid Wilfred in driving the captured criminals and ensuring that none escaped._

_The night was dark, and very cold, silent stars and still trees the only witness to their passage. Despite this tranquility, the voices of constant worry squawked for Cedric’s attention, dispelling any peace he might have found from knowing Wamba was recovered. His hasty examination was not near enough to quell the fear that this journey might be doing the boy yet more harm, and Wamba’s clear unease only sharpened his own. The gentle sway of the sling rocked the boy toward rest, but each time it seemed he might have succumbed to sleep, he jolted back to wakefulness and cast about with anxious eyes until his gaze fell on Cedric and held there. The empty need in that look seared Cedric. Wamba hardly spoke, only nodded each time Cedric or the soldier Farren asked after his comfort. He took no more than a mouthful of water each time Cedric offered his skin._

_By the time the first rays of morning sun began to warm their backs, Cedric was certain that he should have forced Wamba to rest before making the journey home. In the light of day, it was clear that he suffered more than he would admit. The bruises painting the sharp angles of his starved form were only the start of it, pinched tension at the corners of his mouth and about his eyes betraying the pain of deeper injuries that might at that very moment be killing him from within. Cedric nearly changed course, but as he met Wamba’s eyes with intent to tell him that they would seek a friendly sanctuary nearby, the words would not come. He gathered himself instead, and rode on._

_They arrived at Rotherwood just as the sun began to descend from its zenith. The gates were pulled open as they approached, and a small throng of people rushed out to meet them. Cedric quickly spurred his horse out ahead of Wamba’s makeshift litter, doing what he could to shield the boy from a sudden onslaught of curious attention._

_“Back to your duties!” he barked. “All of you. I need only William to attend me now.”_

_His harsh greeting stalled them in their tracks, though many still craned their heads to catch a glimpse behind him. After a moment, the crowd parted and allowed the old physician to pass to the fore. Gurth was just behind him. The stubborn bulge of his jaw and the glint of his stony gaze said plain that he would not be sent away, not even on Cedric’s order. Cedric acceded to his particular privilege with a short nod, and let him pass, but swept a threatening glare over the rest of the servants who were slow to disband. They grudgingly returned inside the walls, allowing Cedric’s party to clear the gate at last._

_He had seen fit to allow others to attend to Wamba’s care after Torquilstone, overly conscious of the appropriate distance that must needs remain between master and slave. It was only later that his conviction on that point began to waver. Now, with a year of intimacy and no more walls between them, he had no intention of letting Wamba leave his sight, and confidence that Wamba wished for the same. Yet as he handed off his horse, the ground seemed soft as down beneath his feet and he could not find his footing. He stumbled and reached for the saddle to keep from collapsing entirely._

_“My lord!” A firm hand on his elbow and another at his back steadied him, propping him upright as he cursed and shook his head._

_“Are you well, my lord?” William asked, appearing at his side._

_“Yes,” he said irritably, shaking off the supporting hand. “It is only the sleepless night. I am not as young as I once was. Leave me be and see to Wamba.”_

_A throbbing pain seemed to radiate inside his chest now, and his arm was suddenly beset by the pricking sensation of tiny needles. He clenched and unclenched his hand to dispel it._

_“You need rest, my lord,” William said, still standing obstinately at Cedric’s side and ignoring Wamba’s greater need. “What have you eaten today?”_

_“It is none of your concern, damn you,” Cedric snapped at him. “See to Wamba.”_

_“Very well, my lord,” William said, stepping away. “I will do as you command. Have a meal, and sleep, and I will send one of my assistants to inform you when we have finished tending to him.”_

_Cedric looked past him to where Gurth and Farren lifted Wamba from the sling, testing whether he was steady enough on his feet. They must have deemed that he was not, for a moment later he was lifted into the soldier’s arms and carried off toward the garrison._

_“I will not have him think I have abandoned him now.”_

_“He will be asleep, too, my lord, as soon as I can get a tincture of hemlock into him,” William said reasonably._

_Cedric’s eyes snapped back to scowl at the physician. “You would drug him?”_

_“It is the most merciful course. From what little I have seen, I believe would find the tending of his wounds most torturous otherwise.”_

_Cedric took no satisfaction in hearing his suspicions thus confirmed, and merely nodded. “Very well. Do as you must. Inform me the moment he wakes.”_

_“I will, my lord, on my honor.”_

_Little as it pleased Cedric to admit it, there was wisdom in William’s counsel. He left the duty of sorting out the horses and trapping of the short journey to his retainers and retired to his own chamber. The house servants had put it to order and lit a healthy fire. A fresh jug of wine and cup waited for him as well, but the map was still pinned across the table, and scattered notes littered its surface. He stood in the quiet and stared at it for a moment, letting his eyes follow the trail he had marked to their destination, the unassuming lines that denoted the place where Wamba had been abandoned to his waking nightmare for weeks on end._

_The memory of the boy’s faint protest against Galen’s lies, proof of how the boy had clung to his faith in his master all while Cedric flailed about, useless but to scratch marks onto a skin and fret, tore a roar from his throat. His palm slapped down atop the map, covering that accursed patch, and fisted in the weathered hide. He tore it up with a yell, flinging it toward the fire. His chest heaved as he stared at it, and the tattered corners that remained pinned to his table._

_A keen ache spread through his chest, and the strength drained suddenly from his legs. He lowered himself into his chair and covered his eye with his hand, waiting for the feeling to pass. Slowly, it subsided, along with the helpless anguish, leaving only exhaustion. He listened to the crackle of the fire and let emotion drain away._

_The peace did not last long. Mere moments later, the door burst open without warning. He looked up with a ready glare fixed on his face, only to find Nora with a tray in her arms and tears standing in her eyes, pattering straight for him with unusual haste. He sat up straight in his chair just as she reached him. She dropped the tray to the table with a dangerous rattle and turned to throw her arms about him, the force of her grip crushing the breath from him._

_“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “Thank you for not giving up hope.”_

_He sat in stunned silence for a moment, before he had the presence of mind to awkwardly return the hug with a hesitant pat to her shoulder._

_Nora pushed away a moment later, wiping at her eyes. She began to lay out the meal on the tray for him, as calmly as though she had not just embraced him for the first time in their decidedly long acquaintance. He sat back, keeping a wary eye on her, though he was in more than a little in sympathy with her upheaval._

_“Have you seen him?” Cedric asked quietly._

_Her hands slowed, but did not still. “Not as yet, my lord. I was told that he is being treated, and I thought it best to see to your needs first. It is enough, for now, to know that he is returned.”_

_“In body, at least,” Cedric said. “The rest remains to be seen.”_

_“You will see to that, my lord, as you saw to bringing him back.” She smiled at him, though her eyes were welling again. “Now, you’ll want to have a rest, no doubt. I’ll send some of the boys up with a bath for you once you’ve eaten.”_

_Cedric decided it was safest not to protest. He tried to put his worry for Wamba from his mind, and surprised himself when he succeeded in taking a few hours of true rest before a young man knocked at his door to tell him that Wamba was awake. He dressed quickly, trying not to speculate on what might await him in the physician’s chamber, though his imagination supplied all manner of terrible truths that William might have to tell him. But even his worst visions did not prepare him for the sight that met his eyes as he entered the physician’s chamber._

_He stopped still in the doorway and stared at the curled form in the low cot, as rage began to rise anew. Wamba’s eyes were closed, and his golden locks were gone, his head shorn to the skin like a common prisoner._

_“My lord,” William said, standing from the stool beside the bed._

_Cedric snarled at him, “What have you done?”_

_Wamba’s eyes opened to slits at the sound of his voice, though he did not raise his head. He remained under the power of whatever soporifics William had fed him, grasping at consciousness. The physician urged Cedric back with open hands, inviting him to the outer room to speak. Wamba’s eyes slid closed again as they left._

_"He was infested with nits, my lord,” William said, “and fleas. No doubt from the vermin that had a nibble on him. It was this or a month of lye baths, and I could not see my way to putting him through that as well. It will grow back."_

_Looking at Wamba through the doorway, it was clear he had been scrubbed with lye already. His skin was raw and red where the harsh substance had touched. William had made the more merciful choice, but the shock did not sit well with Cedric._

_“What else?” he said curtly._

_“His ribs are cracked,” William reported. “At the back more than the front. No doubt from whatever weapon that left those bruises on him. He will need take care that they do not heal badly and leave him with a stoop.”_

_Cedric let his gaze wander over Wamba, noting each mark and injury. He had been dressed in loose garments of soft linen. His feet were bandaged, as were his wrists. The boy’s face bore a scattering of dark bruises, that on his cheek from the strap the starkest of all, and his hands were marked with bright crescent scars dug by his own fingers. Cedric did not dare remember the damage that lay beneath his tunic._

_“I will see to it,” he said. “Is that all?”_

_“All but that which I am sure you already know.”_

_His meaning did not elude Cedric. “I will see to it,” he said again._

_William looked as though he might say more on it, but they were mercifully interrupted by the arrival of two more visitors. Cedric felt his brow lift as he observed the long face of a hound appear behind Gurth’s legs. Its tongue lolled as it padded at its master’s heels._

_"I see Gurth is intent on undoing your work, bringing his flea-bitten companion,” he said to William._

_"He is a cleanly beast,” Gurth said stiffly, “and better remedy than hemlock for what ails him. Mark my word on that."_

_He pointed the dog to the small cell where Wamba lay. Its brushy tail immediately began to sway as it realized who waited there. The shaggy old hound lumbered through the door and snubbed its muzzle up beneath Wamba's chin, snuffling at him in earnest canine concern. A broad tongue lapped at the underside of the boy's jaw._

_Wamba woke slowly, and a fuzzy smile stretched his lips. He raised a weak arm to sling it around the dog’s neck. “Ho, Fangs,” he sighed._

_Fangs laid one broad paw on the bed and settled his hindquarters on the packed earth floor, his tail sweeping back and forth as he wheezed out a short whine. Wamba gave a hoarse laugh, and wrapped both arms around the beast's neck to bury his face in the grizzled ruff. His shoulders shuddered, and Fangs settled his great head down with the patience of his years, letting Wamba weep into his fur. Watching them, Cedric concluded that Gurth had indeed been correct to bring this curative._

_“Lord Wilfred will be in to see him, too, no doubt,” Gurth said._

_Cedric tore his eyes from Wamba. “Wilfred is here?”_

_“He was just arriving when I went to fetch Fangs,” Gurth said. “Shepherding a whole flock of scoundrels by the look of it.”_

_“Why was I not informed?” Cedric said, though he knew neither of the men there would have an answer. He did not wait for them to speak, but turned to William instead. “Is there any reason why Wamba must remain here? I would have him brought to my chambers as soon as possible.”_

_William considered it a moment. “It will do him no harm to move him. If he has need of anything, I or one of my assistants can bring it readily enough.”_

_“Then see to it,” Cedric said, turning to leave._

_“My lord,” William called him back._

_Cedric paused. “What is it?”_

_“My lord.” William hesitated, and when he spoke again it was with lowered eyes and voice. “I hope you will understand, I feel it is my duty to inform you that it will be some time before he is fit for any sort of physical exertions.”_

_“What sort of selfish devil do you take me for?” Cedric demanded, flushing with indignation. “I would have him where I can ensure that he rests in peace, and nothing more. See to it, and be grateful that I have no time to address your faithless accusations.”_

_“Yes, my lord,” William said, bowing to Cedric’s back as he stormed away._

_He found Wilfred at the far end of the garrison, attempting to solve the puzzle of how to house so many men in Rotherwood’s three small prison cells._

_“We’ll have to chain them in the yard tonight,” he told Cedric, “unless you want to use the stables. It will be cold either way.”_

_“Let them freeze here. Drop them in a lake if you please. It makes no matter to me. Just see that their leader is chained and under guard.” Cedric had no intention of allowing Galen even the slightest chance of escape._

_“That is done already,” Wilfred said. “I put him in the near cell. What would you have me do with him?”_

_“Would that I had run him through on the spot,” Cedric muttered._

_“I doubt King Richard would count it against you if you did so now,” Wilfred said._

_Cedric thought about how it would feel, spending his anger and his worry on the one who most deserved to suffer for them. “No,” he said at last. “I have had lesson enough on the evils of allowing our baser urges to overpower our morality. I will not lower myself to his like. He has been committing all manner of villainy in these lands. Let the king have him.”_

_“Alright,” Wilfred said. “Then I will be happy to deliver him and the rest of his rotten band. You have more pressing matters that require your attention. Do you wish to speak to him?”_

_“What is it that you imagine I should I say to him?”_

_Wilfred shrugged. “We’ll be off to London in the morning. They’ll most likely be executed. It might be your last opportunity.”_

_There were many things Cedric wanted to say to Galen, and to ask, though most of them seemed likely to end in murder. Above all, there was one question that he did wish answered, one worth letting the vile man into his presence one final time. He put a calm expression on his face before he entered the cells._

_Galen was bound in heavy chains, his hands secured behind his back, but even so restrained he lounged against the wall as though it were his choice to be there, his massive bulk taking up most of the space in the small cell. He looked up as Cedric appeared, and a slow smirked twisted his rough features. “Well, if it isn’t the avenging angel. Come to fly me to heaven?”_

_Cedric looked back at him through the bars that separated them, refusing to let the blatant provocation ruffle him in any visible way. “Did you think I would not find you, Galen? Did you really think I would not come looking?”_

_Galen’s smirk widened to a grin, though his eyes were cold as winter. He licked his lips slowly. “Has he been crying for me? I know he dreams of me. I wager he has for years.”_

_“What is he to you, Galen?” Cedric asked with forced calm. “What is it about him that so compels you that it was worth your life to take him from me?”_

_“You know as well as I, Saxon,” Galen laughed mockingly. “He is tight as a virgin and stays that way. Why else do you keep him all to yourself? You think what you do to him is so different, but I know that you imagine him the way I had him, tied over the table with his legs spread and his mouth open taking them two at a time, and the strap to boot.”_

_The sickening image sparked a visceral rage in Cedric. He reined it in with the last frayed threads of his control, and ground out, “If it is your hope that I will kill you and save you the agony of your execution, you will be sorely disappointed.”_

_Galen’s eyes narrowed, sensing Cedric’s agitation. “You take him and count yourself a saint for it, but the truth is that of the two of us you are the selfish one, keeping him to yourself. I am generous. I gave him many opportunities to display his talents.”_

_The words twisted through Cedric’s mind like poison. He shook them away with a violent effort, and wondered at the power of this warped creature. It was easy to see why weak, lost men might fall under his sway, but Cedric was not a weak man. Carefully composed, he showed Galen nothing but his disdain, staring into the empty pits of his eyes._

_“Hear me now, Galen. You may have forced your will upon a defenseless child, but your venom has no power over me. You can say nothing to cause me to think less of him. I see now that you will never reveal why he was chosen to be the victim of your evil, but you would go to your death smiling in the knowledge that he will be your legacy. You think he will never be free of you. You are wrong.”_

_“I am in him, Saxon, and I always will be. If you keep him, you keep me.”_

_Cedric leaned forward, one hand closing tight around the bars of the cell. “You are wrong. Your violence and your cruelty have not broken him, only scarred his body, but scars fade. He has kept himself from you for all this time. He is mine now, and you have no power over him. I will erase you.”_

_Galen’s smirk collapsed, but Cedric did not wait to hear what reply he might make. He turned away. Wilfred was waiting for him at the door, leaning back against it with arms crossed. There was an unusual warmth for his father in his face, but he said nothing of what he had overheard._

_“What of Oswald?” he asked instead. “Should I take him to London with the rest?”_

_Cedric glanced back over his shoulder, to the far cell where he knew Oswald was housed. He shook his head. “I am not yet ready to pronounce judgment on him. It is too soon to tell how grave a punishment is deserved. Let him rot a while yet.”_

_“Very well,” Wilfred said. “Then I will take the rest, and you may deal with him as you see fit.”_

_Cedric looked at his son properly for the first time in weeks. Wilfred was clearly weary, yet still he carried out his duty without hesitation or complaint. Cedric reached out and clasped Wilfred’s shoulder, more grateful than he could express in the stilted language of their conversations that had never quite overcome the conflict of Wilfred’s youth._

_“Enjoy a night of rest and comfort first,” he said. “You have done more than anyone could have hoped.”_

_“I will.” Wilfred’s eyes met his, an understanding passing between them that Cedric had long ago given up for lost. “You should do the same.”_

_“I intend to.”_

_Cedric was as good as his word. He passed by the great hall and the sounds of the gathered people within, deciding to let them go without their lord presiding for one more night. He sought instead the comfort of his chamber and the responsibilities that awaited him there._

_As he had commanded, Wamba waited there, tucked into in Cedric’s bed with his body bent into a defensive curl. Looking at him, Cedric had a moment of doubt, as Galen’s accusations rang in his ears and he remembered that he had ordered Wamba brought here without bothering to ask what the boy himself desired. He stamped the small voice down, refusing to allow such thoughts to poison his first truly private moment with Wamba._

_He settled on the edge of the bed and reached across to lay a gentle hand on the boy’s head._

_“Wamba,” he called._

_The boy stirred, dark eyes fluttering open. “Master?”_

_“Yes,” Cedric assured him, rubbing his hand over the whiskery bristles that were all that remained of his hair. “You must lie flat if you are to heal properly.”_

_Wamba’s eyes closed again. “But it hurts, master,” he said, a plaintive note in his voice. Whether it was simple exhaustion or the physician’s tinctures that made him so uncharacteristically honest about his suffering, Cedric was helpless but to respond._

_"I know, child,” he said soothingly. “I know, but it is for the best."_

_Wamba only hunched his shoulders further, an unhappy tilt to his mouth. So Cedric kicked off his boots and slid beneath the blankets until he could pull Wamba to him, lying back and maneuvering the slight body carefully. When he was done, Wamba lay atop his chest, his spine straight and Cedric’s arm wrapped securely around his waist._

_Wamba sighed and tucked his face into the curve of Cedric’s shoulder, his nose resting just beneath Cedric’s ear as he sought unconsciously after his scent. Cedric stroked a hand along the back of his neck, gratified that his mere presence could give the boy such peace. It quelled the echo of the misgivings that Galen’s words had woken in him. A man so twisted could never understand such trust, as he could never be worthy to inspire it._

_“Is that better, Wamba?” Cedric asked._

_“Yes, master,” was the whispered reply, a soft breath against his throat._

_Cedric kissed his brow._

_“Rest now. I will keep you safe.”_

_It was a promise he would go to any lengths to keep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of non-consensual m/m sex (rape).


	77. Chapter 77

_Wamba woke screaming that night. Cedric’s eyes flew open on a rush of alarm, his sleep fogged mind slow to grasp what was happening. He clumsily endeavored to calm Wamba, only to be knocked away wheezing when Wamba’s elbow landed in his gut. The boy thrashed his way free of his master’s hold and clawed across the bedding in desperate flight from terrors had infiltrated his dreams. Cedric realized what was about to happen and lunged after him, but he was a moment too late. His hand closed on empty air just as Wamba tumbled over the edge of the bed to the floor._

_He landed heavily on his back, and immediately arched up and away from the stone with a broken cry. Cedric gave chase, dashing to his feet and reaching down for him. Wamba scrabbled away from his hands on faltering limbs. What demon he saw in his master’s shadowed form, Cedric could only guess, but he did know that Wamba was in considerable peril of causing himself further injury if he did not halt this frantic flight._

_“Be still!” Cedric commanded him, his voice cracking with authority._

_Wamba stopped, poised on tense arms. His whole gaunt body heaved with his panicked breaths, but he did not retreat further. Cedric took two measured steps toward him, and bent to reach out a cautious hand. Wamba shrank from him, his body collapsing into a huddled curl at the threat of that unwanted touch. So the Saxon withdrew, dismissing the prick of Wamba’s rejection, and lowered himself to his knees before his slave instead._

_“Wamba,” he called, soft now, “look at me.”_

_He remained where he was, a slight chill creeping into his skin, until finally, tentatively, Wamba raised his wan face and met Cedric's gaze. A faint furrow notched his brow, and his limbs began to uncurl as reason returned and he recognized the man before him._

_“Master?”_

_“Yes,” Cedric assured him. He offered his hand, though he kept it well clear of Wamba and forced no touch upon him. “We are alone. You are safe. Come to me, dear one.”_

_Wamba hesitated only a moment before his hand fell lightly into Cedric's. The rest of him followed, crawling slowly on stiff limbs until he was pressed against his master's breast._

_Cedric lifted him from the cold floor with a careful grip and held him on his lap, stroking a gentle hand down his back. His skin and the linen shirt that clung to it were damp with the sour sweat of fear. Wamba buried his face in Cedric’s shoulder and trembled. “Forgive me, master.”_

_Cedric hushed him, even as his heart bled to see him overwhelmed by such unreasoning terror, his affectionate, clever boy reduced to such base instinct. “He is not here now. I am here, and you are home, and I want you. I want you here, and I will not allow you to be taken from me again.”_

_Wamba said nothing more, but he clung to Cedric with all the strength in his thin arms, and slow tears wetted the skin of the Saxon’s neck. Cedric returned the embrace and waited patiently, allowing Wamba to decide when he was ready to release him. At length, the boy’s quaking stilled and his weariness overtook him again, but even then, even in sleep, he did not relinquish his hold. His chest aching, Cedric held him close as he levered himself to his feet and carried Wamba back to bed._

_Twice more before morning Wamba woke, though Cedric, watchful now, succeeded in keeping him to the bed until morning. Shortly thereafter came William with his tinctures and Nora with her porridge, and Cedric could justify neglecting his own duties no longer. He left Wamba in more capable hands, stung by his own impotence and wondering grimly how many more such nights they must weather before Wamba found peaceful rest again._

_His frustration only grew as the days passed. Wamba recovered so slowly that at times it seemed to Cedric that he made no forward strides at all. He spent near a week in a perpetual drugged doze, while William fed him ever greater doses of various tinctures in an attempt to assuage the pain that afflicted him. They were wholly ineffective. Wamba made scarce complaint, but the way his jaw clenched as his muscles appeared to writhe and knot beneath his skin left no doubt as to how he suffered. Cedric interrogated the physician daily, demanding to know why he could not apply a more effective cure, but William remained adamant._

_“I can attempt nothing more while his bones remain in such a fragile state, my lord.”_

_His helpless vexation bordering on outright fury, Cedric demanded, “What of the potions the Jewess left him?”_

_“My lord!” William protested, staring at him aghast. “I know how you fear for him, but let us not allow emotion to sway us to dangerous paths. I cannot advise turning to heathen magics when our own methods have yet to be fully tested.”_

_“Your words betray your ignorance, William,” Cedric admonished him. “She would hardly cast a hex on a slave to spite my family, least one who twice had a hand in ensuring her deliverance from her Norman captors. Her skill preserved Wilfred’s life, lest we forget. There is some art there that we do not comprehend. If it will help him now, then I will not scorn it for its origin.”_

_William was unconvinced, but as he had no better solution Cedric would not accept his refusal. He would allow no cure to go untested that might give Wamba some relief from his purgatory of constant pain. If he was called to answer for it, among his many sins, he would tell the heavenly tribunal the same. He saw that the Jewess’s instructions were carefully read and followed, and watched as Wamba was set to steep in a hot bath clouded with mysterious powders._

_The boy roused from his drugged stupor as the steaming water touched his skin. Immediately, as he did each time he woke, he cast his gaze about for his master. Cedric met his anxious eyes with a reassuring smile, and moved to sit on the stool beside the bath and offer Wamba his hand._

_“Is it too hot?”_

_“No, master,” Wamba murmured. He reached out and took Cedric’s hand in his, though his face flushed even as he did, with more than the heat of the water._

_Cedric brushed a knuckle down his cheek. “What troubles you?”_

_Wamba bowed his head, eyes fixed on their joined hands as he asked quietly, “Am I not a burden to you, master?”_

_The worry beneath his words was plain on his face, the shame that he remained in need of such constant care and could be of no fit use to Cedric. The physician and his assistant kept their eyes studiously averted as Cedric forced another smile and pressed Wamba’s hand more firmly in his own. “It is a simple truth of this world that it takes more time to build than to break. Be patient, and spend your strength on healing. Trouble yourself about nothing else. Your place here is never in question.”_

_Wamba’s flush darkened, but his shoulders released some of their tension. He did not look up, but bent his head to press his lips to Cedric’s knuckles in a fealty that was not quite a kiss. “Thank you, master.”_

_It took much longer than Cedric had hoped, but the foreign cures worked their strange powers. When Cedric pulled Wamba into his arms that night, he was warm and loose-limbed, and he slept deeply without any hint of nightmares. For that, Cedric offered up sincere thanks to whichever god it was that had finally granted them a hint of mercy._

_After that night, with his legs more firmly beneath him, Wamba began to spend his days abroad in the castle. Some days Cedric spied him in the bailey or the kitchen garden, some days he did not. Wamba avoided the great hall and its boisterous company, but he always returned to Cedric at night, timid and sweet as he slipped into his master’s arms._

_The bruises and abrasions melted gradually from his skin, time and care erasing the evidence of Galen’s violence, but relics remained. He was content most often to be silent, where before a jest had been ever ready on his lips, and when he did speak his voice seemed to have taken on a permanent rasp, a rough edge on his lilting words that never completely faded. Though he was undoubtedly haler than upon his return, he remained alarmingly lean. Cedric’s fingers slotted too readily into the spaces between healing ribs when he pulled Wamba close to him at night, and when weeks had passed with no perceptible improvement, he resolved himself to discover the reason._

_The investigation was brief, for he discovered Nora waiting for him outside his study the very next afternoon, wringing one of her apron strings between her hands._

_“I hope you have come to explain to me why Wamba appears as though I have ordered him on prisoner’s rations,” he said, “and also what you intend to do about it.”_

_He opened the study door, and he she followed him in, her face lined with worry. “He would not wish me say anything to you about it.”_

_“But you will,” Cedric said, his mood brooking no argument._

_“I see no other choice. I am at wit’s end with that boy.” Nora shook her head, her grip on the apron gone white. “My lord, I have tried every trick I know. I can force no more than milk into him. Not for weeks now. He will not even touch anything more. I must beg your aid in this.”_

_“Has he eaten nothing?” Cedric asked, his brows lifting of their own accord. “Do you mean to tell me he has survived on milk alone since his return?”_

_“Yes, my lord,” Nora said, her face crumpling. “He tried to eat, at first. Oh, did he try, but no good at all did it do him. He cannot keep down what he swallows.”_

_“And what possible cause can this ailment have? Has he told you of some injury of which I was unaware?”_

_“Not a physical injury, my lord,” Nora said. “At least, not that I can tell. It seems to me more likely that his memories are to blame, but he will not say what he remembers that causes him to be ill the moment anything of any substance passes his lips.”_

_A sinking misgiving took form in Cedric’s gut, a possibility that he should have suspected long before now. The look Nora turned on him was imploring, her helplessness so familiar, as it was kin to that which weighted his own heart. But he had long ago resolved to face Wamba’s battles head on with him, and unexpected as this was it was no less important._

_“Send a tray to my chambers tonight, with the things he favors,” he told her. “I will see to it.”_

_He did not think he had yet earned the relief that came over her features. “As you command, my lord. Thank you.”_

_Cedric returned to his chamber early that evening, forgoing the meal in the great hall in anticipation of the requested tray. He expected that it would arrive in timely fashion. What he did not expect was that it would be delivered in the hands of Wamba himself._

_He hovered uncertainly between the door and the table, the fire reflected in his eyes and a heavily laden tray balanced in his arms._

_“Your supper, my lord,” he said, with a respectful dip of his head._

_“Our supper,” Cedric corrected him, extending one hand to invite him near. “Come and share a meal with me, Wamba.”_

_Wamba’s expression was instantly wary, his mouth pulling into a flat line, but he obeyed the beckoning hand and approached to set the tray on the table before his master. He poured a cup of wine for Cedric, and moved to retreat to his usual chair. Cedric caught him gently by the wrist, and pulled him close instead._

_“Here,” Cedric said softly, as he guided Wamba between his legs and down to rest atop his thigh._

_The boy settled gingerly on Cedric’s knee, stiff with unease. “Master, I…”_

_“You would tell me that you have no appetite,” Cedric interrupted him, though his words were gentle. “I know that this is true, but I must insist that you sustain yourself regardless of hunger.” He curved his arm about Wamba’s back and settled one careful hand on his hip to hold him._

_Wamba leaned immediately into the security of that embrace, even as his face paled and a flurry of panicked realizations flashed behind his eyes. “Master, I can explain.”_

_“No explanation is necessary,” Cedric told him. If all of Nora’s cajoling had not induced Wamba to eat, there was little merit in discussing the reasons, particularly when such an exercise would only cause him further distress. Wamba must eat, and to accomplish this end Cedric was willing to make use of the one tool he wielded that she could not, invoking Wamba’s staunch obedience to his master’s will._

_Cedric surveyed the dishes on offer on the tray, his hand stroking absently at Wamba’s hip, before he at length selected a crust of bread crowned with amber honey. He lifted a morsel between his fingertips and carried it to Wamba’s lips. He rested it there, meeting Wamba’s nervous eyes with an expectantly raised brow, until at last the boy’s mouth opened and he accepted the food from Cedric’s fingers._

_No sooner had it touched his tongue than his body rebelled, the muscles of his stomach seizing in an involuntary retch. He clenched his jaw and rode out the nausea with closed eyes. Cedric waited patiently, stroking a soothing hand over his belly until he obediently swallowed the bite down._

_A bead of sweat had appeared on his brow when he opened reddened eyes. His mouth remained twisted in a miserable curve, until Cedric tipped up his face with a gentle hand on his chin and placed his lips carefully over Wamba’s._

_The kiss was brief, a quick press before he pulled back and smiled. “Well done.”_

_Wamba blinked at him, as his face darkened in a startlingly swift flush. It was the first such kiss they had shared since Wamba was taken, and it disarmed them both, Cedric’s heart stumbling on an extra beat at the unexpected sweetness of it._

_Cedric returned to the tray, moving on from the bread to lift a spoonful of honeyed porridge instead, on the suspicion that Wamba would find the sweeter fare more palatable. The boy’s mouth opened more readily that time, though he still struggled to choke the food down. Cedric dropped the spoon to cup his hand around Wamba’s neck, brushing a gentle thumb over his throat until he felt him swallow. Then he immediately pulled Wamba to him for another kiss, equally brief._

_Wamba followed him that time, tilting his face to yearn after Cedric’s mouth, and the Saxon indulged him with another warm press before he insisted on another bite, and then another. Not every bite was for Wamba. Cedric did indeed share it with him, taking every third one for himself. With each successive mouthful, Wamba was quicker to swallow, eager to earn the reward his master offered, and Cedric let each kiss linger a little longer than the last. It was a method that had served him well with Wamba before, albeit in different form, transforming a thing of horror into a thing of pleasure with care and gentle implacability._

_When Wamba grew full, his belly firm and warm beneath Cedric’s hand, the Saxon laid down the spoon and closed both arms around his slave’s slight body. He shared soft, undemanding kisses with Wamba, until he was certain that the boy had calmed and his meal would remain where it belonged. Then he handed Wamba the mug of milk on the tray. Wamba wrapped his hands around it and cradled it to his chest as he leaned against his master, his head tipped to rest on Cedric’s shoulder and a flush in his cheeks._

_“How do you feel?” Cedric asked._

_“Well,” Wamba said in whisper. “Thank you, master.”_

_Cedric kissed his brow and brushed a careful touch along his ribs. “Come to me when you have need of me,” he said. “I will not accept you suffering alone when together we might find a way past it.”_

_Wamba nodded, and a shy smile appeared on his face, the first true smile that Cedric had seen from him since Galen. It displeased him that Wamba seemed now to be defined this way, his days with Cedric cloven in two by that great schism, a clear line between the time before Galen and the time after, measured out by the slow strides Wamba made. Every step was at once a victory and a tragedy, for they had taken them all before, and were forced to retread those same painful roads over again to regain even a semblance of what had been._

_Thankfully, that night proved to be a turning point. Wamba’s smile grew more ready, and the warmth in his eyes often outweighed the lingering anxiety when he looked at Cedric. Some nights he sought his master’s kisses when he lay in Cedric’s arms, some nights he did not, and the Saxon let him set the pace of their gradual reacquaintance._

_Yet still he kept to those places and people who were most familiar to him, for reasons that Cedric did not question. Thus he was absent from the great hall the evening that Wilfred returned. His arrival was unannounced and quite late, but Cedric welcomed him and his men warmly into Rotherwood’s company, quickly ordering a place between Cedric and Rowena to be set for his son._

_“I had wondered if you would be returning to us or passing the winter in London,” Cedric said, watching Wilfred quaff down a goblet of strong ale. “You have sent no word.”_

_The knight clapped the mug to the table and leaned back in his chair with a relieved sigh. He turned a warm smile on his wife. “There has been much to do, but I took my chances with the weather. It was well worth the risk to spend these cold, dark months among the comforts of home.”_

_Rowena returned the smile and extended a hand to him. Wilfred took it delicately in his and pulled it to his lips to kiss the backs of her fingers. She allowed this for a moment, then pulled her hand away and returned her attention to her meal. “And that is all the comfort you are likely to enjoy until you have availed yourself of a bath.”_

_Wilfred threw his head back in a hearty laugh. “Oh, my heart, how I have longed for the tender care you ever afford me.”_

_Cedric shook his head, despairing that his son would ever grow past this ridiculous besotted idiocy over his wife. “And what news of London?”_

_Wilfred turned to look at him, and then pointedly past him to the empty chair to his left. The laughter fell from his face, and he spoke with lowered voice. “They have all been sentenced. The executions continue apace. Two each day.”_

_The hot satisfaction of that pronouncement warmed Cedric more quickly than the wine in his cup had done. “And Galen?”_

_“Is a matter we must discuss. King Richard has ordered him put to death as a traitor to the crown. It will be quite a spectacle, but it has been delayed. The king means to wait until Wamba can be there to witness it. Do you think that is a thing he would want?”_

_Cedric could not disguise his surprise, but he was immediately grateful to the king for the magnanimity of the decision. “I will have to discuss it with him,” he told Wilfred. “I suspect that it would do him good to see it, but I cannot yet suggest to him that he face that man again. He is not yet ready. Give him a few weeks more.”_

_“Of course.” Wilfred nodded. “It will not be done before the spring now, regardless. There is no need to force the issue. How is he?”_

_“He heals,” Cedric said, for it was the truth, though it did not fully express the painful truth of the turbulent starts and stops and backward steps._

_“What did you decide to do with Oswald?”_

_Cedric snorted, his stomach twisting at the unwelcome reminder of a topic he had assiduously avoided calling to mind. “I have not yet decided anything.”_

_“You mean he is in the garrison even now?” Wilfred asked, turning surprised eyes on his father. “How long do you intend he should remain there?”_

_“As long as I deem necessary,” Cedric said. “I have been concerned with other matters.”_

_“Father,” Wilfred said, in the long-suffering tone that immediately raised Cedric’s hackles, “how much longer can you possibly consider the matter? It does not do to delay justice.”_

_“It is not only Oswald who suffers for the uncertainty,” Rowena added, undoubtedly emboldened by her husband’s presence. “You must know the servants speak of it endlessly. They will remain uncertain until his fate is decided.”_

_“So you are united against me so quickly?” Cedric scowled. “Now, as ever, I have hardly say at all for what happens in my own household.”_

_“Father,” Wilfred said, but Cedric interrupted him, making up his mind._

_“No need to speak further. Well have I taken your point. We will dispense with the matter with all haste. Send for Oswald.”_

_Wilfred stared at him for a moment, judging his sincerity, but Cedric set his jaw and waiting expectantly. He took another long swallow of his wine while Wilfred ordered a pair of guards to retrieve his erstwhile butler. The gathered crowd, overhearing the order, immediately began to buzz with whispered conversation, and a blanket of anticipation descended, dampening the cheer that had accompanied Wilfred’s arrival._

_When Oswald appeared, between two guards, the voices died away to pregnant silence. Cedric ignored everyone but the man before him. The long weeks of his confinement had diminished him, but Cedric felt no pity. His suffering bore no comparison to that he had brought upon Wamba with his malicious betrayal. Oswald still wore the fine clothes he had been given as a mark of his trusted position within Cedric’s household. Worse for wear though they were from the poor comfort of the dungeon, they were more reminder than Cedric wanted of how blind he had been to the true nature of someone who stood so close to him, someone whose loyalty he had never thought to question._

_He stared at Oswald with all the conflicting emotions he had deliberately avoided confronting these past weeks roiling within him._

_“My lord,” Oswald sniveled when Cedric remained silent. His hands were clasped and held before him as though in prayer._

_“Do not speak,” Cedric said. “No words of yours will sway my decision.”_

_Oswald visibly swallowed, his face draining of the feeble color it held. Cedric let him wait, considering whether he would regret his decision, but there was only one course that would impress upon Rotherwood how grave Oswald’s crime had been without turning him to a brutal monster in the eyes of his people._

_“Oswald, as of this moment you are dismissed from my service and banished from my lands. You are forbidden to show your face at Rotherwood again, on pain of fatal consequence.”_

_“My lord?” Oswald whimpered, his eyes growing wide and voice rising in woeful entreaty. “I beg you reconsider, my lord. Where am I to go? What am I to do?”_

_“That is no longer my concern,” Cedric said dispassionately. “I am not without mercy. You may take this night to gather your possessions and say your farewells. If you are still here at the second bell tomorrow, you will be considered a trespasser and treated as such.” He waved a hand, a wordless order to the guards to escort Oswald out of the hall, well ready to be rid of him. It was at that moment that he noticed the pale shadow that hovered just inside the doors._

_Wamba stood straight with his back pressed to the wall and his hands behind him. His face was unreadable. His eyes followed Oswald as he walked meekly between the guards, shoulders bowed and head hanging low. The sight sobered Cedric instantly, and he was assailed by a rare moment of doubt about his sentence. His decision to spare Oswald a bloody end was founded in great part on the belief that Wamba would not wish it, would prefer that Cedric show mercy, but if he had misjudged and dealt a blow to Wamba’s recovery, he would not soon forgive himself for it._

_As quick as he could complete that thought, Wamba had vanished, retreating from the hall in a breath. Cedric did not hesitate. He made his excuses, leaving Wilfred and Rowena to preside over the rest of the meal, and went to follow. He went directly to his chambers, and found Wamba, just as expected, waiting for him there. The boy stood still before the fire, watching the jumping flames with his arms wrapped about his own body. Cedric approached him slowly until he could frame his narrow shoulders with careful hands. Wamba did not turn to look at him, but neither did he pull away._

_“Are you displeased with my decision?” Cedric asked quietly._

_By the very nature of their stations, Wamba had no right to approve or disapprove of any choice that he made. Wamba knew it, by the quick, surprised glance he shot up at Cedric, but even as the voice of his pride reminded him of it, Cedric knew it for a lie. Wamba’s good opinion was something he desired, and he was prepared to do much more than banish a disloyal servant if Wamba wished it of him._

_“He is really gone?” Wamba asked, eyes returned to the fire._

_Cedric slid his hands down Wamba’s arms in a brief caress. “Did you think I would allow him to stay after what he did?”_

_“I thought you might,” Wamba admitted quietly. “He was born here. He belongs here.”_

_“He does not,” Cedric said firmly. “He forfeited his right to be here when he betrayed my trust. When he tried to take you from me.”_

_Wamba took a quiet breath, and finally turned to face him. His eyes were wide and liquid, overflowing with a gratitude so deep it humbled Cedric to see it._

_He spoke past the sudden knot in his throat. “If you would prefer that he face stiffer consequences, I am certain Wilfred will happily deliver him into a shallow grave for you.”_

_Wamba breathed a soft laugh, a sweet, true smile tilting his lips. “Thank you, my lord, but I would not have your son a murderer for my sake.”_

_“You are pleased, then?” Cedric asked him, brushing the backs of his fingers over Wamba’s scarred cheek._

_Wamba took Cedric’s hand between both of his and leaned up to brush a shy kiss to his master’s lips. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you, master. Thank you.”_

_Cedric cupped a gentle hand around his jaw and returned the kiss, careful as ever lest Wamba take fright. Perhaps the question of Oswald’s fate had prolonged his uncertainty, for there was no hesitation in him. He leaned longingly into Cedric’s embrace, and after several long moments his lips parted in shy offering._

_Gentle and slow, Cedric took that invitation. He slid his tongue into Wamba’s mouth to reclaim that part of him as well, tracing the edges of his teeth until Wamba’s mouth opened wider and he welcomed Cedric more fully inside. It was another triumph, another inch regained, and Cedric celebrated with meticulous attention._

_He released Wamba after a span, flushed and smiling, to send him off to prepare for sleep. Wamba shed his clothes and donned his loose nightshirt, but he was not yet content to rest. He crawled immediately into Cedric arms once they had both settled in the bed, tilting his face up to beg more kisses. Cedric granted them, luxuriating in the warmth that grew slowly within him._

_Wamba lay back, and Cedric followed, looming over the boy though he took care to keep his weight carefully suspended on his arms and place no pressure on Wamba’s ribs. His cock was growing, hard and ready, but he drew no attention to it and demanded nothing of the boy beneath him. Despite his caution, Wamba must have perceived the change, for he shifted under Cedric. Slowly, his legs bent and his knees rose to frame Cedric’s hips in a wordless but unmistakable offering._

_Cedric immediately broke the kiss, lifting away to look down at him in surprise. Wamba remained as he was, gazing up at him with wide eyes as he waited for Cedric to take that invitation, though his smile was a fragile thing, and every bit of him trembled._

_Cedric immediately pushed up onto his knees, sitting back and drawing Wamba up with him to clasp him in a tight embrace. “Oh, my boy,” he murmured, his heart tearing itself to pieces within him. “My brave, beautiful boy. Never for my sake. When you are ready, and not a single moment sooner.”_

_“I trust you, master.” Wamba’s arms were desperately tight around him, his shaking unabated even as he spoke._

_“I know,” Cedric assured him, brushing a hand through the soft golden fluff of his hair. “I know, child, but trusting and wanting are not the same. You may still have this, still have everything else. If you never want more again, you may still have this. Everything in time, when you are ready.”_

_Wamba tucked his face into his master’s neck, perhaps to hide the tears that fell now on Cedric’s skin instead as he whispered, little more than a breath, “I love you, master.”_

_Cedric’s eyes began to burn. Even in this, even now, Wamba was the braver of them. He acknowledged the truth that had existed there between them for so long, and though Cedric knew Wamba would expect nothing from him in return, he could not be so callous as to pretend he did not feel the same. Wamba had opened the door that Cedric could not, and all Cedric need do was follow._

_He hitched Wamba closer against him and pressed a fervent kiss to his brow, and let his heart speak. “And I love you.”_


	78. Chapter 78

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_London never changed._

_The stench of it assailed the Saxon’s nose before his horse’s hooves even touched the revolting slop of mud and offal that passed for the city’s streets. Drab peasants crowded about on all sides as he passed through the gate and into the confined close between the canted tenements. They trudged through the muck with hoods up to defend against the cold mist that descended from the steel gray sky, laden with baskets or pushing wooden barrows filled with sodden linen sacks._

_They made no way for him, so he spurred his horse on through the press until it opened at last into a wider thoroughfare lined with market stalls and he could look back to the rest of his retinue. Wamba rode just behind him, his head swiveling as he gazed with intense fascination at the scenes unfolding around him from atop his own mount. Cedric’s dour mood lightened somewhat to witness his astonishment. While Cedric himself had ever taken a thoroughly dismal view of the king’s city, and avoided it unless he had no workable alternative, watching Wamba react to its peculiarities for the first time was not without delight._

_Wamba soon noted Cedric watching him, and favored his master with an abashed grin. “Do all of these people really live here?”_

_“Nearly all of them, though I cannot begin to fathom why,” Cedric told him, directing him to draw his horse even with Cedric’s with a curt gesture._

_Wamba was beside him a moment later. “There must be some benefit to them in it,” he said thoughtfully, before a sly smile tilted the corner of his mouth. He glanced sidelong at Cedric from behind the tousled strands of hair that were just long enough now to fall across his eyes. “Or perhaps it is merely that the noble few have claimed all the most desirable lands for themselves and left only this small patch of mud for the rest.”_

_“Best you curb such insubordinate talk before we reach the tower, lest the king suspect you of plotting to incite rebellion,” Cedric chided him, though he did not hide his indulgent smile. Wamba’s wit had been slow to regain its sharper edges, but over the long months of winter he had slowly begun to reclaim his humor again. Cedric received each mild jest favorably, pleased to see Wamba growing in confidence this way._

_Wamba returned the smile, and perhaps he might have said more, but his mount shied without warning, jostling him so he clutched for a firmer grip on his reins. Cedric’s eyes snapped down to find the cause, and he was forced to check his horse sharply to the side to avoid trampling the muddled ball of limbs that tumbled across the path before them._

_It was a pair of ragged urchins, one sandy haired and the other dark, tussling over a dirty satchel and shouting at one another. Cedric reined his horse in with a firm tug and bellowed down at them, “Watch yourselves! Have you no civility, you disgraceful beasts? Discipline yourselves, or my men will dispense it out for you!”_

_The dark-haired boy tugged the satchel away from his opponent’s hands, and promptly bludgeoned him over the head with it. He scoffed up at Cedric. “Not likely, you puffed up old codger!”_

_“Do not test me, boy,” Cedric snapped, one hand raised and poised to signal his guard forward._

_“Do your worst!” the urchin challenged him, staring Cedric square in the eye. The other, meanwhile, had recovered enough to grasp the impending danger. He quickly seized his companion’s threadbare shirt and began to drag him away. The dark-haired boy went, but he waggled his tongue at Cedric and flashed him an obscene gesture as the pair vanished into the narrow alley between two listing buildings._

_Cedric fumed, on the verge of ordering a man to hunt them down and deal them a well-deserved drubbing, when Wamba’s soft hum distracted him. He gazed after the scoundrels, a bemused tilt to his mouth. “They are certainly an interesting breed,” he observed mildly, “these city folk.”_

_“No better than godless heathens,” Cedric grumbled, though Wamba’s humor was catching. “With any luck, we will never need have anything more to do with them once our business here is concluded.”_

_That drew a shadow across Wamba’s face, his smile falling away at the reminder that the purpose for which they had undertaken this journey was a grim one. At first, when presented the king’s offer, Wamba had been resistant to even the thought of seeing Galen again. Cedric and Wilfred were in agreement, however, that no amount of assurances that his tormenter was expunged from the face of the earth could match the certainty that witnessing the execution would give him. Reluctantly, Wamba had agreed to do as they thought best, though as the appointed day approached his nightmares had returned in full force. Cedric had spent more than one night as they traveled south sitting awake with Wamba while he revisited memories of horrors that he could not even properly describe to his master._

_Now but a single day remained, and Cedric harbored an unstated but sincere hope that Galen’s impending death would free Wamba at last from the hold the cruel man still claimed on his dreams and his spirit. Cedric spurred his horse on through the final barrier of the city toward reach their destination, the weariness of those remembered nights settled sudden on his shoulders and Wamba newly subdued beside him. It was not long after that the king’s tower came into view. Its white stone walls made for an imposing sight rising above the brown and gray expanse of the city._

_The barbican lifted to allow them passage, and Cedric led the way across the drawbridge. Wilfred waited to greet them in the bailey. His usual smile was somewhat dimmed, but he welcomed his father with a nod and Wamba with a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Your journey was not too arduous, I hope.”_

_“We were blessed with tolerable weather, at least,” Cedric said. He chose to make no mention of the true reason for the shadows that lurked on Wamba’s face and his own._

_“So it is only London that has been trapped beneath this haze all week?” Wilfred asked his father, even as watched Wamba crane his neck to look up at the height of the keep’s walls._

_“Is that not its most common state?” Cedric asked. “Damp and dreary?”_

_“Perhaps you will see a better side of the city before you retreat to your peaceful wood,” Wilfred said. “For now, guest chambers have been prepared for you in the north wing. The king bids you make yourselves comfortable and then join him at the evening gathering in the great hall.”_

_“I have no desire to play at pleasantries with the fawners of the court,” Cedric frowned._

_“Nor will you be compelled to,” Wilfred assured him. “I have made arrangements for a private meal for us afterward, but as you will appear with him tomorrow, King Richard asks that you announce yourself by greeting him in the hall. It is a service he requires of all his vassals.”_

_This sounded to Cedric suspiciously like a pretense to humble him publicly, a chance for the king to demonstrate to the foppish Normans that the rebellious Saxon thane was properly defanged. Hence his first instinct was to defy the order, but even as he prepared to tell Wilfred this, his eyes fell on Wamba. He watched Cedric with an expression of calm expectation, waiting without judgment to follow where his master chose to lead. That trust had brought him here, in defiance of his own fears, and Cedric realized with a sickening sense of helplessness that he could not betray it now. He had let his pride drive him to destructive paths and unhappy ends often enough to know what a bitter victory it would be._

_“Very well,” he said. “I will perform this formality, and then I trust we will be left in peace.”_

_Wilfred knew better than to dare commend his father on this choice. He simply nodded, and turned to direct the waiting servants to lead them inside. The chambers to which they were shown were much grander than Cedric expected, and he found his resentment toward the king receding as quickly as it had risen. They had not one room but two, each with its own comfortable hearth. The spacious bedchamber was adjoined by a shared door to what appeared to be some combination of antechamber and study. For such a brief visit as theirs would be, it was a remarkably generous accommodation._

_“Are your own chambers equally grand?” Cedric asked Wilfred, as two castle servants carried in his meager baggage and began to store it away in the cabinet beside the bed._

_“Hardly,” Wilfred said, with a shake of his head and smile. “I have no need of a study, as most of my time is spent with the king. These chambers are not often offered to guests, but he did give precise instruction on where you were to be housed.”_

_Cedric was not without suspicion over the king’s reasons, but he allowed himself to be mollified and said instead, “Where is this hall where we must present ourselves?”_

_“They will be there for some hours. There is no need to fly to audience at once if you wish to take a moment first to rest.”_

_“No,” Cedric said, “I would have this dispensed with so that the remainder of the evening may be undisturbed.”_

_They collected Wamba, who had stopped to gape in amazement at the tall shelves of books that lined the rear wall of the study, and made their way through the brightly lit corridors of the castle to the great hall. The burnished doors were thrown open for them, revealing a riotous and vastly foreign world beyond. For all that Cedric disdained the Norman style of ornament, he could not deny that the hall itself was a magnificent sight. The carved beams and proud columns, the opulence of the appointments and lavish abundance of food were all designed to impress. Cedric did not give the gathered courtiers the pleasure of witnessing his discomfort. He spared his surroundings no more than a glance as he walked side by side with Wilfred into the hall, eyes on the king who waited on the dais at the far end._

_Wamba walked just behind his shoulder, so close that his arm brushed Cedric’s and drew the Saxon’s attention. It was clear from a glance that it was not the luxuries that cowed Wamba, but the curious attention of the crowd. Cedric they could read in a glance, but the boy that accompanied him was a mystery their hungry eyes devoured even as they whispered their theories amongst themselves. Wamba wore nothing that would clearly mark him for a clown. His simple woolen tunic and hose were more suited to a personal servant or even a squire. Such garb was what he favored now, and Cedric was disinclined to force him into any more common uniform. In truth, Cedric was at a loss to define his precise role any longer, except that he was dear and that his place was at his master’s side._

_It was only at Christmas that Wamba had finally returned to Rotherwood’s hall, at Cedric’s specific request, and still he was not entirely at ease even in that friendly company. Cedric did not ask him to explain his reasons, only made clear his approval when Wamba was of a disposition to join him, and allowed him to absent himself when he was not. Now, he paid no homage to the curious stares of the courtiers, and let Wamba shelter in his shadow without comment as they approached the king._

_Richard wore no crown, but he had no need of one. Here among the court, his confidants hung eager on his every word and tittered at his elbow. His art for politics was a skill that Cedric was naturally inclined to distrust, disposed as he was to plain speech and direct action, but he recognized the necessity of it to balance the many conflicting interests of the English gentry and maintain the peace. It helped that Richard’s smile turned frank and open when he saw them. He stood straight as they approached and waved his lackeys from the dais._

_“Lord Cedric of Rotherwood,” he said, in a voice that carried throughout the hall. “Welcome to my city. Long have I awaited the pleasure of your company here.”_

_The crowd tittered, and Cedric forced the irritation of this mild jibe from his face as he bowed to the king. “Your majesty. Your welcome is most kind.”_

_“Approach,” Richard said, inviting them onto the dais. Wilfred stepped up at once, and Cedric followed. Wamba alone hung back, glancing uncertainly between them. Richard smiled at him. “You as well.”_

_“Your majesty.” Wamba gave a quick dip of his head as he attached himself to Cedric’s side once more. There was a faint tremor in his voice._

_The king must have heard it, for he looked more closely at Wamba and asked kindly, “How have you found London?”_

_“It is most impressive, sire,” Wamba replied._

_“Oh?” Richard said, his head tipping in expectant curiosity. “How so?”_

_Wamba glanced up at him, gauging his humor, and a hesitant smile curled the corner of his mouth. “In the extraordinary number of people you have contrived to wedge into such a small space, sire.”_

_Richard threw back his head in a hearty laugh. Wamba stood a little straighter._

_“A charge not without merit,” the king conceded, “though I would submit that the numbers who choose to live here are testament to the order we have built. It may seem no better than chaos to you now, but the city runs by virtue of systems of great complexity.”_

_“Of course, sire,” Wamba said. “I am sure such things are beyond my limited understanding.”_

_“And your accommodation? Is it to your liking?”_

_“Oh!” Wamba’s eyes lit, and his smile was true. “It is wonderful, sire. I have never seen so many books.”_

_Richard’s expression turned surprised, and not a little impressed. “You can read?”_

_Wamba ducked his head, shying under the pointed attention. “Yes, sire. Wilfred taught me. I have two books of my own.” He darted a quick, guilty glance in Cedric’s direction. “Or, well…”_

_“They are yours,” Cedric assured him gently, and said to the king, “He is also a prolific writer of letters which, as he never lets me read them, I am certain contain a multitude of falsehoods about my cruel ways.”_

_“Never, my lord!” Wamba protested. “It is only that you might think less of me were you to witness the crudeness of my skill with a pen.”_

_Richard laughed again, and Wilfred along with him. “Clearly, you are possessed of more talents than I was aware. Have a care, Lord Saxon, for I am tempted to woo him away from you to my own service.”_

_Cedric glowered. “Hence why I will be removing him from your reach with all haste.”_

_“You will not sojourn in London?” the king asked._

_“I see no reason to do so,” Cedric replied. “We have come for a purpose, and some few small errands besides. There is no need to tarry any for any length.”_

_“You might find something of enjoyment here, I think, if you have a will to.”_

_“I am sure that your city suits you well enough, sire,” Cedric said, “and I daresay it suits my son as well, but I myself have too few days remaining to me to pass any more of them than necessary so far from my home and my people.”_

_“Then allow me to assure you that we will dispense with your obligations without delay. Our long-awaited execution will take place tomorrow. I imagine there will be quite the audience, but you shall appear with me so that you need not fight the crowd.” Richard looked to Wamba. “Do you wish to see him before the sentence is carried out?”_

_Wamba quickly paled, the shadows beneath his widened eyes standing stark on his skin. “No, sire. Thank you.”_

_“You are certain?” Wilfred asked. “You will not have another opportunity. If there is anything unasked or unspoken between you, I will arrange for you to have access to him in the cells.”_

_Wamba’s eyes dropped, and his voice was hushed, for the three men on the dais alone to hear. “The questions I would ask of him are not ones he would answer, and the things I would say to him are not ones he would hear. Thank you, sire, but please allow me to decline.”_

_“Very well,” Richard nodded. “I understand that Wilfred has chosen to hoard you to himself instead of permitting you to share a meal with me. I wish you a restful evening, and I will see all of you on the morrow.”_

_It was a relief to leave the hall and the bald scrutiny of its occupants behind. Wilfred led them to his own chambers, where an attractive supper was laid out on a table before the roaring fire. The food was exactly the quality of fare that Cedric would expect from the king’s kitchens, but Wamba seemed to find no appeal in it, picking at the edges of his plate with restive fingers._

_“Do you suspect your dish to been poisoned?” Cedric asked him. “Or do you abstain merely out of loyalty to Nora’s cooking?”_

_“No doubt she has spoiled me.” Wamba’s replied, with a halfhearted smile._

_“You have been troubled since we left the hall,” Wilfred noted. “If you have had a change of heart about speaking with Galen, there is still time.”_

_“No,” Wamba said quickly. “No, thank you. I was merely thinking on something his majesty said.”_

_“And what is that?” Wilfred asked._

_“That we should expect a crowd.” Wamba folded his hands in his lap, a faint furrow between his brows. “Why is his execution of such great interest to the people here? I did not think he had done them any harm.”_

_“The people of London always turn out for an execution,” Wilfred said. “They consider it fine entertainment on any day, but this will be exceptional even by their standards.”_

_“But why?”_

_“Did I not say?” Wilfred asked, with a quick look to his father. “Galen has been sentenced as a traitor to the crown. It is not since the king’s return that such a punishment was handed down. It is a gruesome death.”_

_“What possible need can there be for more than a sharp axe?” Cedric asked._

_“It will be an axe to end his life, yes, but only after he has been hanged, drawn and gelded.”_

_Though Wilfred’s description was spoken dispassionately, without unnecessary detail, Wamba was ghostly pale by the time he was finished. His voice was a ragged whisper. “Is that really necessary?”_

_“Necessary or no, that is what the king has decided he deserves. He intends to make an example of Galen, and what remains of him will most likely be sent north as a deterrent to similar bands. Though I am sure that he was chosen in no small part due to the King Richard’s particular fondness for you.”_

_Wamba’s eyes dropped back to the table. “I see.”_

_“Enough of such talk for now,” Cedric said. “Let us not ruin our supper.”_

_Wamba said no more of it, but he did not touch his food again, and Cedric found that his own had lost all flavor. They bid Wilfred goodnight and returned to their own chambers with the aid of a passing chambermaid. Wamba went to retrieve his pack from the study while Cedric undressed. Wamba had not returned by the time he finished preparing for sleep, so Cedric went to seek him out._

_He stood just beyond the door into the adjoining room, his pack in his hands._

_“Did you forget something?” Cedric asked him._

_Wamba glanced back over his shoulder at his master. “There is a bed here,” he said quietly. “For a servant, I think.”_

_Cedric followed his gaze. There was indeed a small cot tucked between the hearth and the shelves, draped with simple woolen blanket. Cedric closed the last short distance between them and wrapped his arms around Wamba’s chest. “And if I had a brought a manservant with me, perhaps that is where he would sleep, but as I have not, it must regretfully remain unused.”_

_Wamba turned in his arms, hiding his face against Cedric’s chest as he said, “You might sleep undisturbed if I remain here.”_

_“Do you think I could rest knowing that you were alone?” Cedric threaded a hand into his hair in a gentle caress. “No more of this foolishness, now. Let us discover how it feels to sleep in a royal bed.”_

_Wamba followed him with a relieved smile, and let Cedric pull him close into the safe cradle of his arms, as he did every night. They shared no more than kisses still, that sometimes grew heated but were more often innocent. After months of such nights, the constant restraint had begun to wear on Cedric’s nerves, but he had the experience of years of unbroken celibacy to draw on for patience. He had made his promise to Wamba and he would not break it, to the end of his life if necessary._

_The bed proved to be very comfortable indeed, but neither of them found any true pleasure in it. The night was a blur of weary hours, restive sleep punctuated by quiet words when Wamba grew fretful. Morning was a relief to Cedric’s exhausted spirit, for it heralded the day that might finally usher peace into their lives once more._

_He did not properly recall their morning preparations, nor the journey out from the castle. Only that he made it with Wilfred at one side and Wamba at the other, following the king and his guard. A balcony had been raised above the square, overlooking the crowd and the platform where a pair of hooded executioners waited beside a solitary priest in his plain brown cassock. The king stood at the center of this place of prominence, with a handful of officials at his side. The rest of the balcony he left to Cedric and his retinue, which consisted only of Wilfred and Farren. They stood close to either side of him, guarding his privacy as best they could as he guided Wamba to stand in front of him, hemming him in and wrapping one arm firm about his hips below the railing where the crowd could not see it._

_He was trembling with nerves, even before the rising shouts of the crowd announced the approach of the cart bearing the prisoner. It rolled slowly into the square. Galen’s broad form was bound kneeling upon it, though his frame was rawboned from the long months of deprivation and his eyes were downcast. He did not fight the guards who dragged him forcibly from the cart, leading him up to the platform, and Cedric’s fierce satisfaction at his disgrace nearly stole his breath._

_Wamba physically recoiled at the sight of him, pressing back into the security of Cedric’s body. Cedric held him closer still, murmuring reassurance into his ear as the priest approached Galen to offer whatever divine absolution could possibly be due such a man. Those rites were concluded in due course, and Galen was driven beneath the gallows. The executioners went about their duties expeditiously. A rope was slung about Galen’s neck, and he was forcibly turned to face the king. He gave Richard only a passing glance. His gaze leapt instead to Wamba, and held there. A hatred burned within the black depths of his eyes that took even Cedric aback, and for the first time he questioned the wisdom of bringing Wamba to this place._

_“Galen,” The king intoned. “You are guilty of more crimes than can properly be numbered here. You have poached from my forests and stolen from my subjects, accosted travelers on my highways and unlawfully occupied the dwellings of honest men whose lives you have stolen. I have no doubt that you have perpetrated further unnumbered acts of robbery and violence besides. I see no reason to show you mercy when you have proven yourself capable of none. You will die today, Galen, a traitor to the crown and a warning to those who might seek to circumvent my laws.”_

_That was all the warning given before Galen’s fixed stare was abruptly broken. The executioner heaved back on the rope, and the condemned man was lifted from his feet. His tongue protruded as his chin rose, and his eyes began to bulge grotesquely from his head. Wamba turned his face away and closed his eyes, shuddering with horror at the sight._

_“Wamba.” Cedric said, turning the boy’s face back center with a gentle hand, even as he clasped the slight form tight to his own body with the other. “You must watch.”_

_“Why?” Wamba asked, as close to a whine as Cedric had ever heard from him._

_“Do you object to his sentence?” Richard said. He turned from the spectacle to fix Wamba with his pensive gaze over Wilfred’s shoulder._

_The boy was quaking, but he forced himself to stand straight and meet the king’s eyes. “Must it be so brutal, sire?”_

_Richard’s head tilted, composed even as Galen kicked and choked below. “Would you spare his life?”_

_Wamba swallowed hard, and held his gaze. “No, sire,” he said. “I would not.”_

_“Then what would you have me do?” Richard asked. Wilfred looked between them uncertainly for a moment, then quickly stepped aside._

_“Can it not be done quickly?” Wamba asked._

_Richard gave him a long look. Then he nodded, and turned to bellow, “Let him down.”_

_Galen was released at once. He dropped to the wooden planks beneath him in a heap of rangy limbs where he coughed and heaved, while the executioner looked to the king for his next direction._

_Richard looked to Wamba instead. “Give the order.”_

_Wamba’s eyes widened. “Sire?”_

_“You heard me,” Richard said, extending one hand to point down to the platform. “If you would have his life ended now, then give them the order and it will be done.”_

_“My lord?” the executioner called up to him._

_Wamba started, as he realized that he was the one being addressed. His turned to Cedric, seeking his direction, but Cedric saw the king’s purpose. He held his silence, showing Wamba only acceptance for whatever choice he made._

_Wamba looked back to the executioner, to Galen, who huddled pitiful on the platform, and his features hardened._

_“Yes,” he said evenly. “Do it now.”_

_Galen was seized and wrestled to the waiting block. The axe fell in a black streak too swift for the eye to follow. A meaty thump, and the crowd shrieked._

_Wamba was silent, and he did not look away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for moderately graphic depiction of torture and execution.


	79. Chapter 79

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_Joy or relief. Unfettered rage or abject collapse. Any of these Cedric might have expected. Each had its own proper reply that he was prepared to offer. What he could not have foreseen was the utter calm that came over Wamba. It descended in that moment when the axe fell, and lingered._

_The slave watched with still features and unwavering gaze as the corpse that had been his master was hacked crudely to pieces, the grotesque head with its clouding eyes and gaping purple tongue propped on the block for the crowd to see. He remained there, standing still with hands resting on the balcony railing, while the king withdrew and the crowd began to disperse. Cedric allowed it, hesitant to disturb whatever conflict Wamba sought to reconcile within himself. It was only once the executioners carted the grim products of their labors from the square, and all that remained were two drudges casting buckets of water over the bloodied boards, that he took Wamba’s arm and led him away._

_The boy went, expression unshifting as he followed his master back through the reeking streets to the tower. By the time they reached the privacy of their chambers, his silence had become so thoroughly unnerving that Cedric finally intruded on his thoughts. “Where have you gone, child, that you seem so distant from me?”_

_Wamba stood on the hearth, sightless eyes on the flames of the healthy fire, but at Cedric’s query he blinked away whatever reverie had taken him and attended him with a faint dip of his head. “Forgive me, master. My thoughts seem to wander their own paths, though to no useful end. I shall put it from my mind and dwell no further on it.”_

_Cedric stepped close and lifted the boy’s face with a hand on his jaw. “Dwell if you must. You made a weighty choice today, and that is no small thing to contemplate. Do you regret the mercy you showed him?”_

_Wamba took a quiet breath, considering this question before he said, “No, master.”_

_“Is there really no part of you that wished to see him suffer?” Cedric pressed him._

_“There might have been,” Wamba admitted. “Once.”_

_“No longer?” Cedric watched his face carefully for any shift that might reveal what lay beneath the mask of calm._

_“I know that his majesty’s sentence was fair,” Wamba said, “but there in that moment he seemed to me so…”_

_“So what?” Cedric prompted him gently._

_“So small.” Wamba betrayed no more than the barest hint of his bewildered thoughts, in the faint downward twitch of his brow, but it was enough._

_Cedric had not considered how it might unsettle him, to tower above his tormenter or to have thrust so suddenly into his hands the power to decide the fate of the man who had governed his. To realize that the monster of his childhood was a man, no more invulnerable than any other._

_“It was ever so,” Cedric told him. Wamba was already Galen’s superior in every human quality of worth. The man was utterly unworthy of the outsized place he held in the boy’s thoughts, the filthy fingerprints he had left on an innocent child. If this day had proved it for Wamba, then that was no minor victory. “He was ever a small, petty man and the world is improved for his removal.”_

_The boy’s faint frown grew more pronounced. “Is the world so very different? For the loss of one man?”_

_“It depends greatly on the man.” Cedric brushed a thumb over the curve of his cheek. “Does it not give you peace to know that he is gone?”_

_“But he is not gone, master,” Wamba said, his face dropping. “Not really. I fear he will be here, inside me, forever.”_

_“Not forever,” Cedric said firmly, forcing his face up until Wamba reluctantly met his eyes. “Only as long as you allow him to be. I have no doubt that you possess strength enough to overcome him.”_

_Wamba stared at him, a sadness bleeding through the calm. “And if I can accomplish this thing,” he said slowly, “then you will want me again?”_

_The weight of the quiet question struck Cedric like a boot to the gut. Of all the thoughts he imagined might teem behind Wamba’s silence, not one considered the Cedric himself was at the heart of that turmoil._

_“Oh, child,” he breathed, tugging the slender form against him, though it did little to ease the agony of guilt that he had ever given Wamba cause to doubt. “I want you. More so with each day that passes, but I will not force upon you any embrace that you do not equally desire.”_

_Wamba pressed his brow to Cedric’s shoulder, and wrapped hesitant arms about his back. “I do want you, master,” he said. “I do.”_

_“Yet you tremble beneath my touch and your body does not respond to mine as it once did.” Cedric cradled his head in one hand and pressed his cheek to Wamba’s hair. “I am content to wait until you find your desire again.”_

_“What if I cannot? What if I can never forget?”_

_“You will. In time.”_

_“I have tried to find it, master.” Wamba bit down on his growing agitation, and drew a slow breath before he went on. “I know that with you I was not afraid. With you there was pleasure. I know this, but I cannot recall the feel of it. I fear that perhaps I never will.”_

_Cedric stilled, swept over by a new and sickening awareness of his own shortsighted actions. Never once had it occurred to him that all the time he was waiting for Wamba, the boy had been waiting for him. He had rendered Wamba aid in every way but this, and placed upon him the sole burden of searching out his fled desire. If Wamba could not navigate the way back on his own, Cedric could show him the way. He had done so before. Wamba was his, and not Galen’s to possess any longer. By his own choice, he belonged to Cedric, body and heart. It was only fair that Cedric repay that devotion in equal measure._

_“What would you have me do?” he asked, gruff._

_“Will you help me?” Wamba asked, pressing closer to him. “Please? Master?”_

_Cedric’s mind was quick to supply him all the reasons why he should not do so now. It was days since Wamba had not slept. He had hardly eaten. Mere hours had passed since the shattering shock of Galen’s execution. But he looked at Cedric with hope and sorrow warring in his face, and Cedric could not deny him. Throwing his hesitation aside, he tipped Wamba’s face up to him and covered the boy’s mouth with his own. He held nothing back, loosing his tight rein on his own desire and kissing Wamba with the hoarded want of long months of restraint. The boy shied at first beneath Cedric's ardor, stopped still for a single heartbeat before he quickly began to melt into his embrace, his eyes falling closed and mouth opening easily to grant entry to his master’s tongue._

_This was strictly theirs even now, an act untouched by Galen’s taint, and ever one that Wamba welcomed. He molded himself naturally to Cedric’s body as the kiss stretched on. Even as Cedric pushed him farther than he had yet dared, delving forcefully into Wamba’s open mouth, the boy did not retreat. His hands clutched at the Saxon’s shoulders, borrowing his strength and his certainty. Wamba own desire might be lost to him still, but yielding to Cedric’s seemed to come readily enough._

_Cedric paused, and broke away as a new and promising thought hatched from that belated realization. He had sworn to erase all trace of Galen from Wamba, to cover over every lingering mark with one of his own. Perhaps it was time to follow that promise through, and leave Galen behind them in London for good._

_Wamba’s eyes slid open, dazed with pleasure and the innocent puzzlement caused by Cedric’s sudden withdrawal. “Master?”_

_“Do you trust me, Wamba?” Cedric asked him._

_“Yes, master,” came the expected reply._

_“Then I would have you obey me now.” Cedric clasped Wamba by the shoulders and took one step away from him. Wamba’s brow creased in dismay at the loss of that embrace, but he stood still and waited for Cedric’s next instruction. “Undress yourself.”_

_Wamba’s head tilted, and Cedric watched his expression carefully, but there was only curiosity and no trace of alarm there. He did as he was commanded, shedding his simple clothing and dropping it piece by piece in a small pile stop his boots. He stood before Cedric, his hands at his sides, while the firelight danced across his pale skin and his eyes held firm on his master’s face. Cedric let his own eyes wander, tracing the planes and angles of his slave’s body with an appreciative gaze._

_Wamba flushed beneath this open scrutiny, and his eyes dropped as his color rose. Cedric reached out at once to draw the boy into his arms again, his rough hands gentle as they traced the notches of Wamba’s spine and settled possessive on the small of his back. Wamba shuddered beneath his touch, a low breath of a moan escaping his throat. Cedric bent his head down to take Wamba’s mouth again, a tender reward to soften his next words._

_“Up on the bed now. On your back.”_

_Wamba did as he asked, though he retreated only reluctantly from Cedric’s arms. Cedric watched him crawl up onto the furs and settle there. His head turned to watch Cedric, dark eyes expectant and shadowed with a hint of nerves. The Saxon considered for a moment, then bent to retrieve the thin woolen sash that lay atop Wamba’s abandoned tunic. It served him now for a belt, in deference to a newly acquired and most understandable aversion to stiff leather. Cedric ran it through his fingers, testing the fine weave, and found it acceptable for his needs._

_He toed off his boots and left them behind him to approach the bed. Wamba’s legs slid open for him unprompted. Cedric pressed them gently closed again, and knelt astride the boy’s thighs instead. He dropped the sash beside Wamba and laid his hands flat on the narrow chest. The beat of the boy’s heart knocked against his palm, and Cedric smiled down at him before he bent to claim another kiss. Wamba stretched up to meet him, lips parted and wanting. Cedric bore him back down to the bed as he fed that hunger, trusting in it even as Wamba’s body remained stubbornly unmoved._

_Cedric set that worry aside for later. He stroked Wamba’s tongue with his own, drowning him in that pleasure while slid his hands by inches along Wamba’s arms. He drew them gradually up above the boy’s head, until their hands were entwined on the pillows. Wamba’s spine arched to accommodate the shift, but it did not hide the sudden fright that seized his limbs, the quickened pace of his breath._

_This gesture was not foreign to their play, but it had taken on new and sinister meaning since Galen. Cedric intended to reclaim it, as he would reclaim every thing that Galen had stolen in time. Cedric released Wamba’s mouth to press a soft kiss to his brow instead. He murmured reassurance and tangled his fingers tight with Wamba’s while the boy slowly calmed. Only then did he release Wamba and reach down for the sash. Wamba remained as he was, arms stretched above him, and watched silent while Cedric snaked the length of soft wool through the narrow gap in the headboard. He tied it into a wide loop, and carefully guided Wamba’s hands so they were threaded through. He did not draw it tight. The bonds were easily escapable should Wamba wish or need to free himself._

_Wamba turned his hands to take hold of the sash and closed it in a tight grip, bound now not by force but by Cedric’s will alone. The Saxon sat back to survey his work, the sweet arch of Wamba’s body and the warm flush spreading down his throat._

_“Alright?” he asked, his voice throbbing with the unspeakable tenderness welling within him._

_“Yes, master.”_

_“Good,” Cedric said. He let his approval show in his smile. “Now close your eyes.”_

_Wamba gave him one long look, then obeyed. Cedric lifted a hand and traced the tips of his fingers over delicate eyelids, across the fan of lashes where they rested on the boy’s cheek._

_“Try to keep them closed,” he said, “but open them if you must.”_

_“Yes, master.” Wamba’s voice held a note of unease._

_Cedric stroked a caress over his cheek. “I am here, child, and I will do nothing to harm you.”_

_He closed his hands on Wamba’s wrists again, holding them in a reassuring clasp. Then he trailed his fingers down the silken undersides of Wamba’s arms, tracing muscle and sinew lovingly as he went. Wamba shivered at this treatment, his lips parting on a soft breath. Cedric’s touch lingered for a moment in the join of his elbows before continuing down to trace through the fine hair of the sensitive underarm and settle flat across his collarbones._

_Wamba’s head tipped back, his eyes firmly closed. Cedric curved one hand over that vulnerable throat, sparking a shudder that echoed out through Wamba’s whole form. The Saxon’s hands were rough, knotted with age and ever more suited to battle than the bedchamber, but they could be gentle when he wished them to be. Wamba seemed to evoke that desire in him effortlessly, giving himself over without reserve in eager submission. Cedric wanted nothing more than to spoil Wamba with touch, to gift him caresses enough to at least outnumber the blows._

_Wamba’s breath hitched as Cedric’s hands embarked upon a slow journey down his chest, claiming every inch as he traced the intriguing contours of muscle and bone of which the lithe body was formed. Wamba’s beck bent further, arching up in search of a more substantial caress, so Cedric scoured his hands firm down the boy’s sides and delighted at the sound of Wamba’s plaintive moan. A faint sheen of moisture burnished his skin now, the first coveted sign of what Cedric’s might hope to nurture into true desire._

_Heartened, he skated one hand down the shallow dip of Wamba’s belly to cup his sex in a gentle hand. Wamba flinched at the first touch, his thighs jumping closed, and Cedric ached for all that small gesture spoke that Wamba could not say._

_“Peace, Wamba,” he said quietly. “There is no fear here. No pain.” Cedric held there, sure and steady, letting the heat of his palm warm velvet skin until at last it began to firm beneath his touch and Wamba’s hips lifted in a single brief twitch._

_Wamba could not see his pleased smile, so he rewarded the boy with another kiss, stroking gently into his mouth while his hand moved, slow and firm to encourage that first stirring to grow. It did, to the accompaniment of soft, sweet sounds from Wamba’s throat, and Cedric judged him ready for more. He took care to keep his hands gentle and his movements slow as he slipped a knee between Wamba’s and nudged his legs apart._

_Wamba responded to his unspoken instruction, spreading himself open to make space for his master, though this new surrender came at the cost of Cedric’s hard won ground. Wamba’s lips stilled beneath his, the creeping tension returning to his limbs. The Saxon sat back on his heels and took stock, wiping a hand across his mouth. Wamba’s eyes were still closed, his hands still clasped about the sash, but he turned his face against his arm as though to hide himself from Cedric’s gaze, his lip clenched between his teeth and a bloom of shame hot in his cheeks._

_Cedric ran a hand up his shivering flank in gentle reassurance. “What did I say to you, Wamba?”_

_“No fear, master,” Wamba whispered, “and no pain.”_

_“That’s right,” Cedric said warmly. He bent Wamba’s knee up with a hand and placed a slow, sucking kiss to the tender flesh just inside it. “Only feel. Put every other thought and memory aside.”_

_Wamba breathed out a soft moan as Cedric sucked at that small patch of skin, then another just above. He laid a deliberate line of faint bruises along the inner slope of Wamba’s thigh, marking a trail to his groin. Then he did the same to the other, slow and lingering until Wamba was gasping and his arousal was no longer in doubt._

_Cedric’s tongue itched to taste him, to lavish praise and affection on swollen flesh, but Wamba had never been entirely at ease with receiving such favors from his master, so Cedric decided against it lest he shock Wamba from his deepening haze of pleasure. He sucked and nipped at the boy’s hips instead, and tracked new marks across the slope of his belly. Wamba was writhing by the time he was done, his hands fretting ceaselessly at the sash and his legs pressing in on Cedric’s sides._

_Thoroughly pleased with the state of his undoing, Cedric spared a thought at last for his own desire, raging hot and urgent in his gut. He stretched up to Wamba’s mouth for a hard kiss, eagerly met, before he rose to seek out something that would serve them in place of their usual oil._

_Wamba whimpered at the loss. “Master?”_

_“Just a moment.” Cedric did not turn back, uncertain of the state of his fraying control should he dare a glance at the boy. He moved with new urgency instead, quickly shedding his own clothing as he walked. He rifled through the cupboard, tossing spare garments and trinkets aside carelessly in his search, until he found a salve that would suit his needs._

_Only then did he look to Wamba again, and stifled a groan at the picture he made. Laid out and wanting, painted over with the smudged marks of Cedric’s ministrations, his thighs shifted against one another restlessly in search of sensation._

_“Please,” he called out to his master, drawing Cedric irresistibly back to the bed._

_“What is it that you want, sweet boy?” He settled on the bed, his hip just shy of Wamba’s skin, and gazed down at the prostrate form._

_Wamba’s face turned in his direction, eyes still closed. “You, master. Please.”_

_His heart running over with tenderness, he leaned down to speak directly into Wamba’s ear. “Are you mine, Wamba?”_

_A wracking shudder tore through Wamba, forcing a low moan from his throat. “Yes, master.”_

_“Then no hand but mine shall touch you again.” He made the oath with a depth of conviction equal to any he had ever made, a promise he would keep even unto his death._

_Wamba’s head turned restlessly side to side. “No, master. I’m yours.”_

_It was Cedric who shuddered then, the sweetness of those words more than he could resist. He dove down to silence Wamba with a devouring kiss. Wamba returned it with abandon, drawing him in with eager yearning._

_Cedric broke away, to demand, “Say it again.”_

_“Yours, master,” Wamba panted, body arching after him and hands twisting against the sash. I’m yours.”_

_Cedric kissed the fealty from his lips, plundering his mouth as he parted Wamba’s legs again and slipped between. He settled down atop the slight body, so that his cock lay in the valley between his legs. Wamba’s chest hitched against his, as his master’s desire took undeniable shape in his senses. Cedric stilled, and tipped his hips just slightly in a slow push to allow the boy to become accustomed to his body again._

_When Wamba began to calm, his mouth beneath Cedric’s soft and yielding, Cedric moved again. He set a gentle pace, rocking against Wamba’s opening but making no move to push inside. It seemed an age, but finally Wamba found the rhythm of it and began to move with Cedric. His knees bent and his legs pressed in on Cedric’s hips, clasping him close._

_Cedric finally broke their kiss. He brushed a hand through the damp silk of Wamba’s short locks and murmured, “Are you ready?”_

_Wamba’s fingers clenched around the woolen sash, but he nodded. “Yes, master.”_

_Cedric sat back to retrieve his salve. With it, he slicked himself, then dabbed a generous dollop between Wamba’s legs. He did not push inside him, would not invade Wamba’s body uninvited, but neither would he risk any injury. He pressed the tip of his cock against Wamba instead, and did nothing more._

_Wamba’s breath immediately stalled, his muscles drawn tight as his body braced for the anticipated intrusion. Cedric watched Wamba’s face, and waited. A flicker of confusion crossed his features when no further advance came. Finally, he shifted, tentative, and pushed up against Cedric, his legs drawing tight around his master._

_It was the invitation Cedric had been waiting for. He brought his weight to bear, and breached Wamba with excruciating care. Wamba’s body bowed, and his voice escaped him in a soft cry. Cedric kept his movements slow as he slipped steadily into his slave, but he could feel Wamba shaking again, losing himself to memory._

_He lowered himself down so he could kiss away the tears that beaded on fine lashes, and said soft into Wamba’s ear. “Know me, child. Feel me. Think of no other.”_

_His voice was the reminder Wamba needed. He shuddered against Cedric, a wordless moan spilling from his parted lips_

_“Who am I?” Cedric asked him._

_Wamba’s throat bobbed, and he croaked out, “Master.”_

_It was Wamba’s preferred name for him, though he used it most often when they were alone. Yet Cedric was not the only man Wamba had called by that title, and in that moment Cedric would accept no doubt. “No. Say my name.”_

_“C…” Wamba hesitated, his lips trembling as he hovered on the edge of that impropriety. “Cedric. My lord Cedric.”_

_“Good.” The sweetness of those simple words, his name on Wamba’s lips, flooded Cedric with fierce satisfaction. He pulled back, and snapped his hips in the first genuine thrust._

_Wamba’s eyes instantly flew open. Cedric met him with a smile. “Well done.”_

_The shy smile that Wamba gifted him held in it everything that had been missing from him for all the long winter months. The joy and the pleasure and the peace. He was beautiful, and precisely where he belonged, and Cedric had no choice but to kiss him again, soft and loving. Slender legs wrapped around Cedric’s back, pulling him closer. Above him, his arms strained to do the same._

_The binding was suddenly intolerable to Cedric. His design was not domination, keeping Wamba cowed beneath him as Galen had. It was restoring Wamba’s faith, in his master and in himself, and sharing with him all the pleasures they might discover together. He reached up and tugged the knot free, sliding the sash loose and flinging it to the floor._

_Wamba’s hands were on him a moment later, one wrapped about Cedric’s shoulders as the other stroked adoring down his cheek. Cedric kissed his palm and drove into him again in a deep thrust. Wamba gasped and clasped both arms tight about Cedric’s shoulders, and that was right. That was as it should be, Wamba holding Cedric as fiercely as he was held._

_“My boy,” Cedric rasped. “My strong Wamba.” He drove smooth and deep, overcome by the speed with which his pleasure began to crest. Wamba was there with him, his movements eager and his voice in Cedric’s ear a hoarse moan. Then his body drew tight, his fingers sharp points of delicious pain in Cedric’s skin. His cry was a word._

_“Master!”_

_It tipped Cedric over. He groaned as he buried himself to the root and spilled himself inside his slave. Wamba clasped him close, his entire body wrapped around the Saxon’s as he pressed lingering kisses to Cedric’s jaw._

_“Thank you, master.”_

_Cedric grunted, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at Wamba. The flush in his cheeks and the soft curve of his mouth were all that Cedric could have desired, but he resisted the urge to return for another kiss._

_“I think I would prefer you did not address me thus,” he said instead._

_Wamba’s head tilted, one brow lifting as he looked up at Cedric. “Are you not my master?”_

_“I am,” Cedric conceded, struggling to find the words to frame his newly realized discomfort, “but if that is all that I am, I do not think I can be content with that.”_

_Wamba stretched up to brush a kiss to his lips, a hint of awe shining now in dark eyes. “How would you have me call you?”_

_Cedric thought for a moment before he decided, grudgingly, “You may call me yours, for that is what I am.”_

_“Oh.” Wamba’s smile was warm, his voice thick and sweet as honey. “My master. My lord. My Cedric.”_

_Cedric rested his brow against Wamba’s, and returned his smile._

_“So I am,” he said. “So I shall be. For all the time that remains.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex and for mild bondage.


	80. Epilogue

Piercing needles of light pricked at Oscar’s eyelids. He forced them open and squinted into a blinding world of glowing white, morning rays reflecting off the pale stone walls of the bedchamber. But for that one annoyance, he was warm, and comfortable, and entirely disinclined to move, so he turned his head instead to hide his face in the most readily available sanctuary. This just happened to be the crook of Wamba’s neck.

His nose bumped against the fine links of a chain as he did, and his eyes snapped wide as memory came rushing back. He picked up his head and looked to assure himself that he had not dreamed the whole night. His eyes traced the chain down across Wamba’s chest to the flat half circle of shining silver that lay atop his heart.

Oscar grinned, and reached up to clutch at its twin that dangled from his own neck. It was smooth and solid in his palm, undeniable proof of the renewed bond they had forged between them. The joy of it bubbled up and out of him in a breathless chuckle. The familiar sensation of a gentle hand ruffling his hair pulled his attention higher. He glanced up to discover that Wamba was already awake and watching him. His smile was too sweet for Oscar to resist leaning up to taste, relishing the press of cool metal between them as their mouths met. Oscar licked and nipped playfully at Wamba’s lips before he dove in to indulge in what he considered a properly amorous greeting for such a momentous morning as this.

When Oscar at last saw fit to release him, Wamba licked his lips and smiled up at him. “How do you feel, Oscar?”

His hand slid down Oscar’s back as he spoke, settling careful just at the base of his spine, and Oscar flushed at the reminder of what they had done. He had no regrets for any of it. Every moment was one he wished to enshrine forever in his memory. Still, in the light of day, it was not quite so easy to confront the towering wave of emotions the night had brought.

So he blustered instead, giving Wamba his cheekiest grin as he said, “I'm starving.”

Wamba laughed, soft and warm. “I am amazed that someone with a disposition as inexhaustibly romantic as yours requires food at all. One would think you could subsist on love alone.”

The joy that radiated from him was irresistibly infectious. Oscar nuzzled at his cheek and the soft hollow beneath his ear. “If it is romance you desire, I shall be happy to woo you day and night from here on out.”

“That is a lofty promise,” Wamba said, one brow lifting in amused challenge.

“I’ve been practicing.” Oscar smirked, emboldened. “I even wrote you a poem, you know.”

Wamba's other brow rose to join the first. “You what?”

“Poetry,” Oscar said again, determinedly ignoring the heat creeping into his cheeks. “I’m not all that good at it yet, but I think I’m getting the knack of the rhymes.”

“Where on earth did you get the idea to write poetry?”

“It was Nicholas,” Oscar confessed. “He gave me a book to read while you were away.”

Wamba’s mouth curled in a slow smile, humor sparkling anew in his eyes. “My word, but our new archivist has changed you, hasn’t he?”

“He just let me borrow the book,” Oscar said defensively. “Writing a poem of my own was my idea.”

“I don’t suppose I could hear it,” Wamba said, “this poem that you wrote for me.”

“It’s not really finished yet,” Oscar warned him, “and I don’t remember all of it properly.”

“What you do remember, then.”

He was looking at Oscar expectantly, so Oscar gathered his courage and said, “It went something like this.”

 _There is no dragon's flaming breath_  
_No traitor’s sword dealing death_  
_No creature of land or in the sea_  
_Could keep me from pursuing thee_  
_There is no thing that I could find_  
_Not potent ale nor sweet wine_  
_Even magic herbs and such_  
_Pale beside your tempting touch_

Oscar paused, and dared a glance at Wamba. He had covered his mouth with one hand, and tears stood in his eyes. Oscar’s heart stalled with sudden concern. Then Wamba’s brow twitched, his chest hitched, and Oscar realized he was laughing.

The rush of humiliation was nearly enough to send Oscar fleeing from the bed. His heart shrinking and face burning, he looked away. “I’ve only just started," he muttered. "There’s no need to be cruel about it.”

“Oh, no, no.” Wamba's hands cradled Oscar’s hot cheeks as he pulled him back and pressed affectionate kisses to the edges of his mouth. “I adore it, Oscar. I cannot even tell you how much. You must write it down for me.”

“Really?” Oscar narrowed his eyes at Wamba in suspicion.

“Of course,” Wamba said, though he vibrated with his barely stifled mirth. “My love, you are an endless wonder.”

“I’d like to see you do better!” Oscar challenged him, even as his hurt melted to fond exasperation.

“I suppose that’s only fair.” Wamba thought for a moment. “What about this?”

 _Joyous in love, I make my aim_  
_forever deeper in Joy to be._  
_The perfect Joy's the goal for me:_  
_a flowering Joy, this Joy, burst free,_  
_should bear such fruit no man can name,_  
_lifting among the others a flame_  
_that brightens in obscurity._

Oscar’s mouth fell open. “You didn’t write that!”

“Did I not?” Wamba said, as one corner of his mouth tipped up in a teasing smile.

“Definitely not,” Oscar said firmly.

Wamba shrugged, his skin whispering against the bedding. “You have caught me out. I did not write it, though the sentiment is no less true for it. I merely boast the acquaintance of a certain lady friend who insists on gifting me books. And clothes.” He paused for a moment, a thoughtful tilt to his head. “And now a husband, evidently.”

The unexpected shock of hearing that word in Wamba’s mellow voice thrilled through Oscar, bursts of joy dancing across his skin. “Husband,” he purred, leaning down to brush Wamba’s nose with his own. “I like that. I like that very much.”

Wamba laughed, reaching up to pull him down into a proper kiss. Oscar went eagerly, pouring his devotion and adoration into that single touch, real intent in his motions now as he slid more fully atop Wamba.

His stomach growled, a burbling whine that in the quiet room echoed loud enough to startle them apart. Wamba fell back away from him on a laugh, merry and bright. Oscar groaned and slumped down atop him, flattening him with his full weight.

“We must see about getting you some breakfast with all haste.”

“I can fetch something,” Oscar mumbled into the pillow. “I know my way around a castle kitchen.”

“About that,” Wamba said. “I want you to know I was sincere.”

Oscar propped himself up on his elbows, frowning at the suddenly serious tone. “Sincere about what?”

“I would like to find someone to relieve you of your more menial tasks. You should not have to see to those in addition to your duties in the archives.”

“I don’t mind,” Oscar told him. “I like taking care of you.”

“You can still pester me about my meals without actually fetching them yourself,” Wamba said with a smile. “Your position as assistant to the archivist puts you at a higher station than perhaps you realize. It really isn’t appropriate for you to be cleaning out the grates or fetching up the washing any longer.”

“You were scraping out your own grates most days until I came along,” Oscar reminded him, “and you’re a magistrate.”

“Yes, but you will no doubt recall that my position was a farce until very recently, and the head of the king’s household knew it. Regardless, the time is right. The challenge will be finding someone trustworthy. Though I can certainly afford to pay for discretion, that is easy enough for an adversary to purchase away for an even higher price.”

“I think I might know someone, if she’s interested,” Oscar said, “though I can’t see her passing up the chance to escape from beneath Alard’s thumb.”

“Alright, then,” Wamba said. “You can set the terms. We will settle this as soon as we return to London.”

“When will that be?”

Wamba hummed in thought. “In another week or so, I suppose. The king gave me leave to remain here until midsummer, but I have been absent long enough. I have done grave disservice to the tribunal, and Colin in particular. He deserves better than that if I am to properly call myself a teacher.”

“He’s learned a thing or two in your absence,” Oscar said, not quite managing to bite down on his smirk.

Wamba gave him a suspicious look. “Should I even bother to ask?”

“I’ll tell you,” Oscar said, “but after breakfast.”

He heaved himself off of Wamba with an effort of will and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was not until he tried to stand that he realized it might be more of a challenge than any other day. His hips locked, and the backs of his thighs trembled as they took his weight, making him wobble. He yelped, and reached back to steady himself with a hand on the bed.

Wamba was quickly on his feet, grasping Oscar’s arms to steady him. “What’s the matter?”

Oscar flushed as he realized the source of this acute ache, and he could not meet Wamba’s eyes as he confessed, “I’m just a little… sore.”

“Is that all?” Wamba’s concern gave way to soft amusement, and a hand cupped over Oscar’s cheek. “I did warn you about it.”

“I know,” Oscar grumbled. He shifted his weight carefully to stretch his back, and realized as he did that yet another reminder of their coupling throbbed hot between his legs, impossible to ignore now that he had noticed it. Swamped with sudden embarrassment, he asked, “Do you always feel like this?”

Wamba’s smile was kind, the kiss he pressed to Oscar’s cheek tender. “I enjoy the reminder of you.”

The words melted Oscar’s consternation instantly. It had never occurred to him before, but it was acutely pleasing to imagine that Wamba went about his days with an ache that Oscar had left in him. He could not stop himself closing an arm around Wamba’s waist and tugging him in close. His other hand sank into Wamba’s hair and tipped his head up for a greedy kiss. Wamba met him with equal passion, mouth opening to devour Oscar in turn.

Oscar spun them slowly around, aching legs forgotten as he laid Wamba back on the bed and sank down after him. Breakfast would wait a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for silly boys in love and (deliberately!) bad poetry. Credit where it’s due for the good poetry to William IX of Aquitaine (1071-1127).
> 
> And that’s a wrap! Thanks to all of you who came along for the ride. I have a handful of extra scenes that I’ll be posting as a separate entry while I plot out the next major installment of this monster. You will find all of those things under many of the same tags. Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> All precious things, discover’d late,  
> To those that seek them issue forth;  
> For love in sequel works with fate,  
> And draws the veil from hidden worth.  
> He travels far from other skies-  
> His mantle glitters on the rocks-  
> A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes,  
> And lighter-footed than the fox.
> 
> He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks:  
> He breaks the hedge: he enters there:  
> The colour flies into his cheeks:  
> He trusts to light on something fair;  
> For all his life the charm did talk  
> About his path, and hover near  
> With words of promise in his walk,  
> And whisper’d voices at his ear.
> 
> The Day-Dream  
> by Lord Alfred Tennyson


End file.
